#(he's wrong. he's SO wrong. and he weeps about it later after they DO figure it out and become somehow WORSE)

[tathrin]

“Aragorn called Wingfoot? More like Aragorn called WingMAN, am I right lads?”

[astraystayyh]

The snow falls, we fall apart.

summary: when heartbreak looms on your life, and winter becomes a time you loathe, hyunjin helps you rewrite your memories with the season, and with it, everything you once believed about love.

genre: producer student!hyunjin x reader. roommates!au. friends to lovers. acute descriptions of heartbreak and general sadness. slow burn. hurt/comfort. healing and hopeless romantic hyune. very inspired by long for you so lots of pining and yearning. (wc: 13k)

warnings: mentions of alcohol. it is implied that reader was in an a very toxic relationship but no details are shared.

a.n: happy birthday to my hyunjin, my muse, my light. thank you for being so full of love that it made me love love again in return. this is i think my most personal piece, and i hope it reminds those who need it that love should be soft and kind, that it shouldn’t hurt, that it should heal not break. i love you guys and i love you my xi, writing this collab with you has been a true honor <3 also!! please listen to long for you while reading :,)

winter falls masterlist.

You’ve only ever felt utter despair twice in your life.

First, when you were seven years old, playing hide and seek with your cousins at your grandma’s house. It was a warm summer afternoon, the air sweetened by pastries you devoured hours ago. You decided to hide in a wooden cabinet up in the attic, only to end up stuck there. The walls felt like they were closing in on you, the oxygen seeping away from the cracks underneath the door, leaving you deprived of air, of life.

Second, at twelve, when you've come to discover sorrow's new facet, clad in grief's heavy cloak. Your parents adopted a hamster for your birthday, but they did not know he had a terminal disease. You were distraught, to say the least, when you awoke to its still form, death claiming a frail heart unaware of its imminent fate.

And now, third, many many moons later, you are knocking on Hyunjin’s door a few minutes after midnight. It is cold out, tears tracing rivulets on your cheeks, your fingers tinted pink from roaming outside in the harsh winds, your heart much heavier than when you were a child. More grief-stricken, at your own hands, this time.

A disheveled Hyunjin opens the door, his blonde ash hair tousled and sticking upwards, a clear indication of the many times he had run his hands through it in fits of frustration. His gray hoodie zipped up hastily, revealing the silver cross necklace he was wearing, nestling perfectly against his honeyed skin.

You've always had an aversion to seeking comfort, saw it as revealing your deepest vulnerabilities to a world that isn't always kind. It was easier, much simpler to do so when you were a clueless child— when you sank in your cousin Lia's hold as she attempted to steady your breathing, when your mother cradled you in her lap after Pinky died.

It is much harder now, much more embarrassing because Hyunjin has never seen you this sad, never glimpsed your shadows that now swarm his doorstep, unannounced.

“What's wrong?” he quickly asks, eyes darting over your figure in a rapid search for visible wounds. He wouldn’t find any. All your injuries stem from within— blood doesn’t have to be spilled for your heart to weep.

You had rehearsed a lie as you walked up to his doorstep. You would say that your car broke down near his place and ask if you could stay over for the night. He would insist he could drive you to your place and you’d refuse, saying that it was too late and you did not wish to bother him. You’d sleep on the couch and slip away in the early hours of the morning.

Yet, it is the genuine worry etched in his eyes that dismantles the fortress you've hidden in, melts the lie in your throat, morphing it into a steel lump coiling in your throat. He looks concerned when all you’ve had directed towards you recently was anger. And you missed someone looking at you in care, not reproach.

“I didn’t know where else to go.” You admit, your voice shattered, fragments of your vocal cords scattered out in the wind like a broken mosaic, the sound of it scraping against your ears.

Blow one hurt. It felt like your body turned against you as it deprived you of oxygen. The sobs that escaped you once you perceived the light pained you, perhaps more than being confined in the darkness.

Blow two was even worse, it was your first time experiencing grief. It was too hard of a concept for your innocent heart to grasp, too complicated for you to find solace in anything as adults do.

You promised yourself that you’d reserve blow three for monumental agonies— big pains and big sorrows only. That’s how you managed to keep all your tears at bay for most of your life. Would they be worth losing your third sob for? No, you've always found the answer to be.

And in all the twisted scenarios you’ve conjured up in your mind, deaths and illnesses and the haunting tale of failure, you did not imagine that it would happen on Hwang Hyunjin’s doorstep. That you’d burst into sobs at the compassionate look in his gaze, and the sad smile he sent your way. As if he knew, as everyone did around you. That you had handed a knife to a serial killer and it was only a matter of time before he stabbed you in the heart.

Two weeks ago.

“I’m trying to understand you but you aren’t helping me,” Seungmin is frustrated as he paces relentlessly before you from left to right like a swinging pendulum. You sit on the couch, beholding only his shoes, avoiding his gaze that would reflect the truth you dare not confront.

“He’s sucking the life out of you, can’t you see that?”

You can, out of everyone that surrounds you, you can see it the most. You feel as if you are carrying a skin that isn’t your own, weighed down by a relationship that has taken everything from you. But admitting it is admitting that you were wrong, in trusting him, in loving him. You couldn’t bear it.

“We are fine!” you shout back, the defiance in your voice surprises even you. This is a familiar script with Seungmin, a recurring conversation spurred by your puffy eyes and diminishing appetite. He tells you, begs you to leave, but where could you go? How could you leave a home where you've shed all your treasured belongings at the door— your skin, your bones, your very self.

What place would welcome you now that you're stripped bare of your soul?

“When was the last time he made you smile, huh? All he does is hurt you, and you...” he chuckles incredulously, running his hand through his hair. “You are letting him.”

Deny, deny, deny.

“This isn’t true. He loves me,” the words taste foreign in your mouth like rusty metal dragging across your lips. A small voice whispers that love shouldn't feel like this, but you quiet it down.

“Are you hearing yourself? Yn, I…” he kneels before you, his hands resting comfortingly on your knees. This is Seungmin, your best friend of five years. You know he has your best interests at heart, you are even more sure of it when his voice softens, shakes slightly when he utters your name. “Yn, please. I’m trying to help you. Please.”

“I didn’t ask for your help,” you push away his hands, standing up. “I don’t want your help, and I don’t need it.”

You quickly leave Seungmin’s dorm, your heart heavier than when you entered it, foolishly hoping that he'd ignore your distressed state after yet another fight with your boyfriend. But Seungmin doesn't understand, no one around you does— you’ve gambled your heart, and you cannot stop drawing the cards, even in the face of losing strikes.

❁ ❁ ❁

Hyunjin offers you a cup of tea with a gentle smile and you grab the steaming drink from his hands. The smell of chamomile wraps around your senses, and your brain fizzles out for a second before the soothing aroma. But it is a fleeting respite, the tempest of your thoughts crashes back onto you with an unsettling force, causing you to almost drop the drink as your hands shake. You place it down the table without taking a sip.

“I’m sorry for coming unannounced,” you apologize, wincing at the intrusion, “I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

“I always sleep late. Don’t worry about it,” he smiles, but you know it isn’t a genuine grin, because his eyes betray an unsubdued concern, refusing to morph into their usual moon crescents.

You’ve always thought that Hyunjin wears his emotions openly— when he laughed, he did so loudly, his boisterous giggles traveling around Seungmin’s dorm. When he hurt himself, everyone in the vicinity would know so from his loud yelps. And when something worried him, he would bite his lip, toying with the plush flesh to ease his nerves.

As he is doing now. Looking at you.

“We broke up,” you quickly say, and your words hang over you like a gloomy cloud. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Do you want me to fight him? I’ll bring changbin too,” he suggests a serious tone underlying his playful offer, and it manages to tear a reluctant giggle out of you.

“Changbin doesn’t know me well enough to fight for me,” you counteract and he shakes his head. “He’ll fight for me, I'm his princess.”

“Are you now?” The giggle escapes your mouth less forcefully, and the smile that graces Hyunjin’s face is a genuine one.

“I am. My proposal stands,” he extends his hand and you wrap your fingers around his palm. “Thank you, I’ll keep it in mind,” you smile but he frowns, flipping your hand around in his hold.

“You are freezing,” he whispers, using his other palm to rub warmth into yours.

“It’s fine,” you lie, slipping your hand out of his grasp, not feeling deserving of his kindness.

Wordlessly, Hyunjin stands, walking into what you assume is his bedroom. You only know of his place because you dropped off Seungmin here some time ago. You are too exhausted to even drink in the interior.

“Here,” he returns, handing you a navy hoodie of his and black joggers. “This will keep you warm at night.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, hesitating for a few seconds before speaking again. “Can you please not tell Seungmin, I... I can't face him right now.”

“Of course. I’ll be awake still if you do need something.”

Hyunjin’s clothing is warm, although peeling away your own garments felt like shedding layers of your skin, as if the fabric melted into your very flesh, just like memories from the day did. You have never felt this worthless before, discarded like a forgotten leaf on the roadside, one he stepped on for his own enjoyment, leaving you crushed in his wake, unable to fly away again.

Hyunjin’s rose perfume wraps around you, and you find relief in sleeping somewhere where your, his, scent was no longer around. You foolishly hope that if you close your eyes hard enough, you’ll manage to convince yourself that you’re someone else, tonight. Someone who isn’t tethered to the heartache, someone who can slip away from the clutches of a love that hurts more than hate could ever manage to do.

❁ ❁ ❁

Heartbreak isn’t beautiful, no matter how eloquently you try to dress it in the syllables of poetry, no words can soften the burn in your lungs, the searing ache that courses through your very core, reminding you that deep within, down to the fundamentals of your being and the most basic alchemy that ties your atoms together— you are unlovable. Whether you cut your hair or allow it to grow, change your heart, or leave it as it has always been, you will remain so.

You don’t remember much of the past week, blurry fragments here and there that float in your mind like a distorted water reflection. There is little room for memories when you are busy trying to remember how to breathe— one inhale in, one exhale out. The simple concept seems harder when there are unkind hands permanently lodged into your heart, squeezing it tight.

What you do remember is telling Seungmin through text the next day, because you couldn’t bear the way his eyes would soften if you spoke to him in person. No signs of surprise cast on his figure, because he knew that it was long coming, a train with one final inevitable destination— you in shambles, him okay.

You remember Seungmin cradling you in his arms when he came to see you, and you trying desperately to keep the tears at bay— too focused on pinching your arm to let Seungmin’s warmth radiate through your being, Hyunjin lingering uncomfortably by the entrance of his living room.

You remember begging Seungmin to grab your belongings from the apartment you shared with your ex because you were unable to face him, him, and everything that your old place spelled out for you. Stand in the ruins of what you once thought would be your permanent home.

And now, you watch as Seungmin and Hyunjin bring suitcases full of your stuff into the latter’s place. And you feel like an outsider in your own body, standing at the corner of the room gazing at utter destruction, unable to stop it, unable to mend it. Seungmin quickly reassures you that you could crash in his and Minho’s place until you find a new one to live in, already taking out his laptop to search for new apartments for you.

But you did not care for it, your eyes zeroed in on the satin shirt peeking out of your suitcase. The one he bought you on your first month anniversary. Back when love felt like a gentle feather running down your spine, and not a dull knife slicing away at your skin.

“This place's expensive too,” Seungmin sighs, rubbing his temple warily. Your logical best friend could not fix your heartbreak but he took it to heart to alleviate your other troubles. You would thank him for it, later, when your tongue finds enough will to move.

“What if you move in with me?” Hyunjin suddenly says and his words filtrate through the fog in your mind easily, as if he rehearsed them enough times so they’d roll out smoothly out of his mouth. “I mean, Felix is away for the next year since he went back to Australia. And I was looking for a new roommate anyway.” He shrugs and Seungmin turns to look at you, his eyes convey the question his mouth doesn’t articulate— is it okay with you?

“I don’t…” your voice is croaked, so you clear your throat. “I don’t want you to do things out of pity.”

“I’m not. If I was, I would've told you to move in with me for free. I still need you to pay rent,” he raises his eyebrows, a playful tease and you smile in relief, nodding, “Okay, I will. thank you.”

Heartbreak is ugly and all-encompassing, weaving through the roots of your heart and infecting each organ with its insidious touch. It renders you immobile, incapable of performing the simplest tasks, burdened by a weight unseen by the world. But you try your best, your very best to contain it.

You smile at the cashier as she hands back your money only to wonder if her soft, well-manicured hands would too crush a soul without remorse. You go to all your classes without fail but your mind is elsewhere, contemplating why the sun filtering through the windows no longer warms your skin. Can nerve endings perish when subjected to too much pain? What's left of life when you can no longer feel the caress of the sun?

You watch a movie at Seungmin's dorm but your mind is elsewhere, fleeting to this morning and how you refused to stay in the shower for more than three minutes because your thoughts might become haunting ghosts tempting you to follow them. You brush your hair and spray your perfume, only because you have to, because you live with Hyunjin and you wouldn’t want your sadness to taint him too. You wonder how long you’ll have to bear it. You wonder if it’ll ever leave you or if the veins in your heart have molded themselves after the pain and they wouldn’t know how to accept happiness anymore.

You greet Hyunjin as he walks past you, shaking your head when he asks you if you want to eat dinner with him, quickly retracting back into your room. You have ten unread messages and a pile of growing laundry you need to do, but all you can muster is to gaze at the empty walls, mirroring the void within you. Your mom told you to call her again and you don’t know how you’ll speak to her without bursting into a sob, how you’ll tell her that all it took was one person to break you. Or maybe it was two people, your hands and his tearing apart your flesh and bones. Maybe that’s the worst part about it. So you don’t call her.

And you only ever emerge from your room when you need to, just like now because your water bottle is finished and you need to refill it. You go to open the kitchen door when you hear Hyunjin’s muted shatter, Felix’s distinctive deep voice coming out of the phone speaker.

“Next you add the melted butter and stir it,” Felix instructs, the sounds of pots and utensils clinking in the background. You fidget slightly, mustering the strength to paint a fake smile on your lips.

“What next?”

“Sift the dry ingredients then add them to your wet mixture,” Felix explains, met with a few seconds of silence. You can almost visualize Hyunjin's perplexed expression, blinking rapidly in confusion.

“Explain it to me like I’m five years old,” he requests, prompting a small smile to etch itself onto your face.

“How are you surviving without me?”

“I’m not please come home,” Hyunjin sounds horrified as Felix’s rich chuckles fill the air. “Why do you suddenly want to make brownies anyway?” he then asks.

You go to open the door when Hyunjin’s response catches you off guard.

“They’re for Yn.”

Hyunjin's words resonate in the air, causing a hitch in your throat and Felix’s teasing whistles simultaneously, but Hyunjin is quick to stop him. “No, no, no, it’s not like that. They’re just a bit down and I remember them loving your brownies. So…”

It takes you a fleeting moment to dig the memory out of your mind, a year ago, right before your ex came to pick you up from Seungmin’s dorm. You had a bite of Felix’s brownies, a surprised gasp escaping your lips at its delicious taste, back when food had taste and happiness came easily to you. It was an insignificant memory, you did not imagine Hyunjin, out of everyone, would remember it.

But he did, and he’s now pacing before your closed door, contemplating how he’ll convince you to finally eat something with him. He throws a thumbs-up in the air for no one but himself, inhaling deeply before knocking on your door.

“Hey,” he greets with a hopeful smile, his gaze meeting your tired form. He hesitates for a second, clearing his throat. “Brownies?” You remain unmoving and he falters, “Hm? Please?”

“Sure,” you nod and a wave of relief floods through Hyunjin as you step out of your room. His joy is short-lived when he takes the brownies out of the oven, only to find them thoroughly burnt.

His mouth hangs agape, and he walks back shamefully to the oven, lowering its door only to scream inside of it.

“This will be more therapeutic,” you say, pointing nonchalantly to the fridge and he agrees, opening its doors and yelling once again in the much larger space.

Your melodic laughter fills the kitchen, Hyunjin’s embarrassment is suddenly a forgotten memory.

“I’m craving kimbap. Should we get it instead?” you propose, a touch shyly and he quickly agrees, afraid you’d change your mind and walk back to your room where he can no longer ensure you are okay.

Hyunjin absentmindedly dances along to the music blasting through the convenience store when a girl sidles up to his side, a saccharine grin on her lips as she looks up at him, “hi,” she greets and his tentative smile mirrors hers. “Hey.”

“Are you single?” she asks, her gaze briefly fleeting to the window. “I think you are really cute.”

“I’m…” he glances at you but you're suddenly engrossed in the ingredients of the tuna kimbap you are holding, pretending not to listen. “I am but I’m not interested, thank you.”

“Oh, come on,” she places a hand on his arm and he physically recoils. “Give me your insta and we could talk.”

“No,” he repeats, grabbing her hand to remove it when a loud voice startles him. “Baby, what’s taking you so— What are you doing?” Hyunjin watches in horror as the girl’s eyes grow wide, before she scrambles to the man’s side, feigning fear.

“He kept hitting on me when I said I had a boyfriend, baby.”

“What?” both you and Hyunjin gasped in comical unison. He would find it amusing if not for the escalating anger radiating from the man, who looks like he spends all his days in the gym. Hyunjin suddenly regrets not working out with Changbin.

The man strides towards Hyunjin. “Do you want to die?”

“No? there’s a misunderstanding,” he replies, swiftly standing before you and shielding you with his arm. “Your… baby,” he wiggles his finger in front of the man's face, “she was the one hitting on me!”

The man scoffs loudly, his face growing redder from the anger seething in him. “So you hit on my girlfriend and then accuse her of cheating?” His fist rises threateningly, prompting Hyunjin to step back, accidentally bumping into your chest.

“Wait, wait, wait! Let’s go talk outside, man to man,” Hyunjin pauses, his voice taking on a taunting edge, “unless you're too scared?” he smirks as he feels you pull at his shirt, whispering an incredulous- “What are you doing?” He shakes his head, grabbing your hand and leading you outside, throwing a sly wink at the man behind you now.

“Are you seriously going to fight him?” you ask, your gaze shifting towards the deranged couple who are about to step out of the grocery store. “No, of course not. I'm a lover, not a fighter.”

“You said you'd fight my ex,” you point out and his eyes soften surprisingly.

“You are an exception.” He looks back at the man, who's now walking towards you both. “But anyways, do you know how to run?” he asks and you frown, “who doesn’t know how to—” you pause as realization dawns on you. “No," you whisper furiously.

“Yes.”

“No,” you shake your head, horrified and he nods, eyes apologetic.

“Yes.” His fingers entwine with yours, he squeezes your hand once before he takes off running.

“Hwang fucking Hyunjin!” you shout and he looks back at you, a mischievous smile on his face. “I’m sorry Yn my face is too pretty to be beaten up.”

“He’s following us!” you yell, looking back horrified as the, even angrier, man runs after you.

“Well, run faster!”

“I’m wearing fucking slippers!” you curse and he giggles, tipping his head back, the wind slamming into you both, his hand never letting go of your own.

“Oh my god why is he still running!” you groan and Hyunjin picks up speed, moving you even closer to his sprinting figure

“I know, is it ever that serious?” he yells above his shoulder and you dig your nails into his palm.

“Shut up, this wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t so gorgeous.”

“So, you think I’m pretty too?” Hyunjin grins proudly and an incredulous laugh escapes your lips.

“Really? Is this what you’re getting out of this situation?”

“Silver linings, Yn, silver linings,” he shouts as you round a small alley, finally stopping to catch your breath. You both fall to the ground, heavy breaths escaping your chests.

“Holy shit, I’m not athletic at all,” he heaves, his eyes meeting yours. He expects to find anger lingering in your gaze but all he can grasp is your amused smile before you collapse into a fit of laughter, clapping loudly and clutching your stomach with your hand.

“Oh my god, I’m crying,” you laugh harder, wiping away at the tears falling from your eyes. Hyunjin’s weariness disappears in the blink of an eye— he did not realize how much he missed your smile until he glimpsed it again. And it is beautiful. Happiness looks beautiful on you.

“Idiot,” you hit his shoulder playfully, and his response is delayed for a few seconds, the warmth from your smile rendering him immobile.

“I’m sorry,” he chuckles, pulling you up. “Here, I’ll carry you home,” he squats slightly before you. “How impolite of me. How dare I make your majesty run.”

You shake your head, amused, before climbing atop his back, his warm palms holding your thighs securely. “Only because the slippers hurt my feet.”

You walk in silence for a while, your arms wound up around Hyunjin’s neck, the ghost of a smile still lingering on both your faces.

“They said it will snow tomorrow,” Hyunjin speaks suddenly and you stay silent for so long he starts to wonder if you even heard him.

“Mm? That’s nice,” your tone is melancholic, and he pauses at the peculiar sadness in it— as though you were trying to act nonchalant about something that has once meant the world to you.

“Don’t you like the snow?” he asks and your hold on his neck falters.

“I loved it. Loved ice skating and building snowmen.” Your voice is light and airy, like Hyunjin’s favorite mint chocolate ice cream. “But now it reminds me of bad times, bad memories.”

“I understand.”

Hyunjin knows what it feels like to relinquish parts of yourself you never wished to part from. For someone to grab your happiest places and to cast a gloomy filter atop them. Sometimes it is the loss of a season that hurts more than the departure of a person.

And Hyunjin loves winter.

He’ll do everything so that you’ll come to love it again too.

❁ ❁ ❁

Is it a nightmare if the person in it is one you once loved, looked forward to beholding with your gaze, hoping they’d never slip out of your reach? You don’t know, but you are growing tired of having the same dreams every night. Of waking up with an exhaustion that goes beyond your restless sleep but pleads from your soul to rest after almost a year of torment.

You sigh wearily, rubbing a hand through your face before walking to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water. You find Hyunjin there, eating a cupcake while standing shirtless, scrolling through his phone. You blink at the sight.

“Hey,” you clear your throat and he startles, dropping the cupcake on the ground. He goes to pick it up only to bang his head on the table, a loud yelp escaping his lips. You barely contain your giggles as you walk to his side, rubbing your palm soothingly on his head. “I'm sorry I didn't mean to scare you.”

“At least pretend you are sorry,” he mumbles, pointing to your amused smile and you chuckle, taking his hand and helping him to his feet.

“What are you doing up now?” he asks as he grabs some napkins to clean up the pink frosting smeared across the floor.

You hesitate for a few seconds before whispering, “Just nightmares. And you?” you quickly add, not keen on pushing the subject any further.

“I'm working on a song,” he explains, as his gaze lingers on your sunken eyes, weighed down by dark circles from too many sleepless nights.

“And the cupcake?”

“Some people need caffeine to function. I need flour.”

“I literally see you drink three americanos per day.”

“Okay well maybe I need both,” he admits sheepishly and you grin, drumming your fingers along the countertop.

“Can I sit with you while you work?” you ask quickly, before the words linger enough in your mouth that you no longer wish to spit them out.

The smile that Hyunjin sends you is kind, pushing the shadows of your nightmares just slightly out of reach.

“Of course, yeah you can. Don’t even need to ask.”

Hyunjin walks first into his bedroom, quickly slipping on a hoodie while you take in the interior. It is a quite simple room— a large bed with gray covers, and a desk filled with what you assume to be his producing equipment sits adjacent. But what catches your attention is the dried rose hung delicately on the wall, and the array of paintings surrounding it. You edge closer to it, drawn to the well-crafted paintings— a sun-drenched beach, a couple lost in an embrace so intimate their forms can no longer be separated, and an elderly pair riding a motorcycle, their love radiating vibrantly as if enclosed in eternal youth.

“You paint?” you ask, turning around to find Hyunjin watching you. He steps closer, enveloping you once more in the fragrance of his rose perfume.

“In my free time.”

“You are amazing, Hyunjin,” you compliment sincerely, your gaze fixed on that imagery of the old couple, one that most likely grew together. It tugs at your heartstrings, stirs a painful longing within you, a memory of a time when you too believed you’d find such boundless love.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, before brushing his fingertips gently against your forearm, for a fleeting second. “Are you okay?” he asks, a tenderness you’ve been aching for latched into his question. Your eyes refuse to peel away from the paintings and the love spilling from each paint brush stroke, a love that refuses to rest on your being as if you were harboring an armor that repels it.

“No,” you reply sincerely, turning to face him. “It’s really hard,” you say with a smile, hoping that the mechanical display of happiness would keep your tears at bay, tricking your brain into believing you're not as sad as you feel.

It fails to do so, and the tears well in your eyes like a gathering storm. Frustration twists your features as you shut your eyes, tilting your head upward in a desperate attempt to contain the flood. It pauses as Hyunjin cradles the back of your head, drawing you close to the warmth of his neck. His palm glides soothingly along your spine, before patting your back ever so gently.

Your back stiffens, hands curling into tight fists, breath catching in your throat. You've grown accustomed to pushing away comfort, putting up tall barriers to shield yourself. But tonight, Hyunjin seems to break through your defenses.

Tonight, you soften, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, head nestling deeper against his tender skin.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he whispers and another sob wracks through you, but he only holds you tighter. “It’ll get better soon.”

“I loved him,” you hiccup, your voice breaks, “a lot.”

“I know, that’s why it hurts.” His voice is gentle, and yet his hold on you feels secure as if you could stumble and fall, and he would be there to catch you

“I want it to stop hurting.”

“It will, with time.”

Your next words are tinged with a childlike vulnerability, reminiscent of blow one, then two. But you do not care for it, in that instant, you crave the reassurance, you need someone to plant a seed of hope in your soul because your hands are too frail to dig for it.

“Do you promise me?”

His response doesn’t come hastily, carelessly thrown into the air like idle chatters. He takes his time, considering it with the gravity of an oath.

“I promise you.” He finally says, each syllable infused with sincerity. A brief pause hangs in the air before he adds. “And if it doesn’t then you can hit me.”

“On your pretty face?” you ask, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

“On my pretty face,” he confirms with a chuckle.

“What an honor,” you roll your eyes playfully as you lean back and he grins, tenderly wiping away your tears with the back of his fingers.

“I can't believe it took three minutes for you to cry in my room. This isn’t good for my reputation.”

“Good thing this will never leave this bedroom, right?” you point a finger at him threateningly, and he pretends to zip his lips, tossing away the imaginary key. “You got it.”

“So what are you working on?” you ask as you settle on the edge of his bed, knees drawn up to your chest.

“It’s a pretty sad song, wanna hear?” he offers, sitting across from you on his chair.

“Yeah, I'd love to,” you smile, and Hyunjin deftly adjusts a few buttons, before his melancholic whistles weave through the air, coupled with the somber melody of a piano. Your breath catches in your throat, the music reaching into the very depths of your soul. It's as if the notes are calling out for a loved one, for a time that has long passed, for a past that will never come back no matter how much we long for it.

The instrumental continues, each piano note and each violin string echo like a bittersweet lament, springing tears to your eyes. But the melody remains beautiful, akin to the beauty always found in the sadness— in the tears that cascade down your cheeks like glistening crystals, in the tremble of your hands akin to branches swaying in the wind, in the rise and fall of your chest with each breath, mirroring the ebb and flow of the waves.

Hyunjin watches you intently as the music envelops you both, his gaze softening with each passing moment. You bring a hand to your chest, almost unconsciously, too engrossed in the melody to even blink. He feels a blush sprout on his cheeks as your teary eyes hold his with the last fading guitar strings.

“You keep on making me cry,” you whisper, your voice choked with emotion, and he grins, tilting his head shyly against his shoulder.

“You like it?” he asks, a tad eager and you nod, not bothering to wipe the lone tears that are falling down your cheeks.

“I think this is what my loneliness sounds like,” you confess softly.

“As do mine.”

A silent beat runs between you both, it isn’t uncomfortable, but safe. Because you understand him, just as he understands you.

“Sometimes I long for things that have passed," he admits, “although I know I can't get them anymore.”

“The most terrible thing you can long for is yourself.”

“Because no one’s to blame for that loss but you?” he muses and you nod, a sad smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, exactly.”

You bite your lip, casting a glance back at the paintings adorning the wall. “I don't love him anymore,” you begin quietly. “I stopped a long time ago because there was no room for love anymore to grow amid weeds and thorns.”

He remains silent, sensing that this is a weight you need to unburden yourself from.

“But in the midst of it I think I stopped loving myself too,” you whisper, a confession too terrible to be uttered out loud. “That's what I long for. The things I used to love that I'm indifferent to now.”

“Like you’re a stranger before everything once familiar to you.”

“Yeah, you express it prettily,” you remark with a small smile.

“It's my job,” he grins lightly.

“I think when your heart is pure,” he begins after a while, pausing to carefully choose the words that will soothe your burn, help sleep come more easily to you. “You give love to others more readily than you do to yourself. And it takes time, patience, to redirect that love back to your own heart once again. But it's not a mistake to love, you shouldn’t hate yourself for it. Nor should you blame your past self for loving the wrong person because they did not know what you now do.”

“Think of it as a caterpillar in their cocoon,” he continues gently, “when they finally emerge from their chrysalis, they might long for who they were, where they once were because it is the only place they've ever known. But they do not realize that they've transformed into a beautiful butterfly, that they can now fly, and witness much more than their chrysalis. So maybe, your new self will love the same things as before, or maybe you’ll find new, better things to love that you would have not known before. But in either way, your heart is beautiful. That is what matters, no?”

A small pout draws on your lips, your eyebrows scrunched as you gaze at him.

“You have a very tender soul, Hyunjin.”

Your words linger in Hyunjin's mind long after the sunrise, as you lay peacefully asleep on his bed. The melody of the instrumental he produced continues to play faintly in the background, serving as a gentle lullaby that eases you into slumber, entwined in his sheets, your arms wrapped protectively around yourself, one hand cradling your shoulders and the other resting gently on your stomach. The image sears into his eyes as he sketches the outlines of a figure holding itself absentmindedly, long into the night.

Hyunjin has had his fair share of compliments, mostly pertaining to his face, and others to his craft. but it is you who seems to have sensed that a part of his soul resided in his art, that he left pieces of his heart hidden in the notes he composes and the lyrics he writes, hoping they’ll find soft hands that will take care of them, just like your own.

Five days later.

hyunjin [11:34 p.m.]: are you home?

yn [11:34 p.m.]: yeahh, do you need anything?

hyunjin [11:35 p.m.]: come downstairs, im waiting for youu

if you say no i’ll freeze to death..

hurry i can’t feel my fingers anymore (please please) ㅠㅠㅠ

“This better be a life and death situation Hwang Hyunjin,” you say threateningly as soon as you appear before Hyunjin, causing him to straighten up from the wall he was leaning against.

“It is a very dangerous life-altering situation that requires your immediate assistance, indeed,” he responds solemnly, ushering you gently to his car and opening the door for you.

“Which is?” you ask as soon as he settles inside the car and he simply grins at you, his left dimple coming forth like the very sun on a gloomy day.

“You’ll see.”

Hyunjin’s eyes fleet to your figure every now and then, but you do not seem to notice, your gaze lost into the blurring lights ahead. He can tell you're still not entirely yourself, so he was prepared to forcibly drag you along with him. He’s almost surprised you accepted to come down so easily.

“Is that… Seungmin?” you speak suddenly, pointing to a man waving in the distance, as Hyunjin parks his car near an empty field.

“And Changbin? And Minho?” you continue, squinting your eyes, “and a bonfire?” you giggle with a hint of excitement.

“You love s’mores during the winter, right?”

Hyunjin smiles, your soul softens.

“I do,” you say quietly, “I really do.”

You quickly exit the car, running into Seungmin's arms with a grin of disbelief plastered on your face. “This is insane,” you almost shout, squeezing him tight in a hug.

“It was so hard to find the perfect middle of nowhere for this,” Minho grumbles as you move to greet him, but the warmth of his embrace assures you he's only teasing.

“Thank you,” you say with a smile as you hug Changbin, who affectionately ruffles your hair. “It was Hyunjin’s idea,” he reveals, and you glance back at Hyunjin, who stands with his hands buried deep within his sweatpants behind you. You mouth a silent “thank you” to him, but he shakes his head modestly as if it is nothing to bring happiness to a bruised heart.

The night unfolds in endless laughter, with Minho and Hyunjin taking turns roasting marshmallows over the crackling bonfire, and Seungmin serving you hot coffee to keep your hands warm. Your stomach aches from the uncontrollable fits of giggles that overtook your being as Minho recounts the time he danced so vigorously on stage for his dance club that he ripped his pants, feeling a breeze where there shouldn't be one; and Changbin tells you the story of the time his voice cracked in the middle of a rap battle, and how none of the boys stopped teasing him about it for months to come.

And as the four of them take turns making you laugh, a quiet, tender realization dawns on you—you are loved. It is something he tried to convince you was impossible, that no one around truly cared for you but him. And even then, you weren’t deserving of his love whole, only scrapes of it, as if you were a beggar tugging at the outskirts of his heart.

But Hyunjin reminded you otherwise. And if your friends found something worthy of love within you then perhaps so will you again, one day.

“Did you have fun?” Hyunjin asks as he opens the door to his, your, apartment hours later. What he doesn't expect is for you to respond by wrapping your arms around his slender torso, squeezing tight in gratitude.

“Thank you,” you whisper and he nods, though you cannot see him, returning the embrace by wrapping his arms around your shoulder blades.

Hyunjin doesn't let go first, sensing that perhaps you need this hug more than he does. He smiles as your eyes meet his again, but his grin falters when he notices your gaze flickering towards your bedroom, a hint of unease clouding your expression. It's as if behind that door lie monsters only you can grasp, wearing the faces of people you once knew, once loved.

“Wanna stay with me while I work on the song?”

“Last time I ended up sleeping on your bed,” you say a bit shamefully, recalling the morning you woke up to find yourself covered with a thick blanket that wasn’t there before, alone in Hyunjin's room.

“It's okay,” he shrugs, “I missed sleeping on the couch.”

You stare pointedly at him and he chuckles, “Fine, I did not miss it. But you needed the sleep, so it’s okay with me.”

“Fine,” you concede, though you did not need much convincing for it. “But only if you promise you’ll wake me up if I end up falling asleep again.”

Hyunjin tilts his head, thinking to himself for a few seconds before shaking his head stubbornly, a small pout drawn on his face, his eyes semi-closed. “No.”

“Hyunjin!”

“Nu-uh,” he insists, shaking his head once more as he walks back towards his room. “I'm waiting for you!”

“I'm not coming!”

But you do eventually join him, after changing your clothes and washing your face. You find Hyunjin clad in beige and white checkered pajamas, his glasses pushing back his silky hair as he hunches over his journal, scribbling away before erasing what he wrote.

“Struggling with lyrics?” you ask, leaning against the wall and he startles. “Do you float on the ground? Why can I never hear you come in?”

“Or maybe you just love being dramatic,” you sing-song, laying atop his bed, much more at ease than the previous night.

Hyunjin sticks his tongue out childishly in response, and you playfully mimic the gesture before both of you dissolve into happy giggles.

“Kind of,” he explains once you both settle down, “I have this specific feeling in mind that I need to convey.”

“You'll do well,” you reassure softly, “your lyrics are always so beautiful. Remember Cover me?” you smile and he scratches the back of his ear, a shy grin spreading across his face.

“You still listen to it?” he asks and you nod eagerly, attempting to belt into Seungmin’s ending high note. You fail horribly and Hyunjin throws a crumpled piece of paper on your face to get you to stop singing.

“My poor ears,” he laughs loudly, and you retaliate by throwing back a pillow on his head.

“You just don’t get my artistic abilities.”

“I’d get them more if you stayed silent.”

You gasp, faking offense as you stand up to tickle Hyunjin on his chair, he starts squirming immediately, his loud giggles spilling all over the room, coating it in vibrant hues of happiness, and you’re suddenly captivated by the sight of him— his head thrown back, a golden lock framing his laughter-filled eyes, his top lowering slightly to reveal glimpses of his collarbones and the delicate veins that trace enticing paths on his neck.

You pause, your hand hovering over the side of his stomach, as a long-forgotten warmth spreads through your heart, like the first rays of dawn greeting the earth after a long winter night. It doesn’t diffuse quickly through your being, but rather drapes like sticky honey on your veins, making you well aware of your growing blush, of how beautiful Hyunjin is in his joy.

“Never singing to you again,” you clear your throat, laying atop his bed once again, and quickly reaching for your phone, anything to avoid his eyes which rival the crescent moon outside his window.

Hours pass before a warm hand gently settles on your shoulder, rousing you from your slumber. Blinking away the fog of sleep, you find Hyunjin leaning over you, his grin wide and infectious. “Wake up,” he whispers, but you only groan, burying your face deeper into his pillow.

He doesn’t yield, taking hold of your wrist and guiding your drowsy figure upright, before wrapping the blanket snugly around your shoulders. Without a word, he leads you out onto his balcony, carefully putting his neon green beanie on your head to shield you from the cold.

“It’s snowing!” he smiles, and his excited tone manages to dissipate the fog in your mind. You blink repeatedly and soon enough, you too behold the fallen snowflakes, each one resembling a tiny speck of light bidding farewell to the sky to greet the earth.

“You missed the first snow so I didn’t want you to miss this one too,” he explains, and his thoughtfulness blankets you with a warmth that seeps into every crevice in your body, drips down your fingertips and makes the cold of 4 a.m. seem less harsh, less biting to the touch.

You don’t know how to say thank you, because those two words don’t encapsulate the depths of gratitude that you feel for Hyunjin. Because he is speaking to the person within you who still loves snow, the part buried underneath layers of dust from a ground heartbreak. But you still manage to hear him, and you squeeze his hand tightly, and he doesn’t let go until you finally do.

❁ ❁ ❁

Remembering has become easier for you these past two months— both the good and the bad. And each day, the scale tips towards one side or the other. Sometimes you recall the suffocation you felt with him, the feeling that no matter what you did you could never please him, that your hands were crafted to break rather than mend. And on those days your wound grows, it throbs and bleeds different emotions.

Sometimes it's anger— at him for treating your heart so carelessly as if you were a being devoid of feeling. And then at you— for staying, for giving him excuses and desperately searching for goodness within him, for the one redeeming quality that would convince you he was worth the pain.

And other days bring an excruciating sadness along, a weight that presses down upon you until you're paralyzed. Because you feel bad for yourself and for everything you went through. Because you’re unsure how to rise when unseen hands push you deeper into the abyss.

And on these days, Seungmin becomes your anchor. He buys your favorite food, skips classes with you, and takes you to your favorite gardens. He talks and he talks and you try your best to laugh because you do not wish to worry him more. It is enough to be your own burden, you do not wish to burden him too.

But when he drops you home, your facade slips away, the smile fading from your face as if it were never truly yours to wear. You are too tired to pretend so you don’t, and Hyunjin doesn’t let you, either. He brews you tea and orders takeout because he knows you lack the energy for cooking. He goes with you on walks and drapes you in pieces of his clothing— scarves and beanies and gloves because he knows you couldn’t care less about a cold when there is a frost coating your bones. He lets you sit in his room while he works on his songs, and while he paints. Sometimes you talk and often you don't need to. But he’s there. He's there with you.

But you also remember the good. You remember your movie night with the boys, Hyunjin building an entire fort for you, adorned with twinkling lights and the softest blankets. How you watched movies until 5 a.m. your bodies so closely huddled together that there was no room left for sadness.

You recall Hyunjin begging you to build a snowman with him at the crack of dawn, the two of you collapsing in fits of laughter as you threw snowballs at one another, your footsteps marking the fresh fallen snow.

You remember being so exhausted after one of your showers that you simply laid atop the couch, gaze fixed on the void, too drained to even untangle the knots in your hair. Yet, it is not the tiredness that you exactly recall, nor the salty tears you shed underneath the scorching water jet. But it is Hyunjin's tender hands as he brushed through your hair, his fingers tracing the nape of your neck, his knuckles ghosting over the slate of your shoulder. You remember whispering that it was a particularly hard day and Hyunjin understanding. You remember him watching many YouTube tutorials to prepare your favorite seaweed soup, only for it to end up being too salty. But you still ate it all, because he made it for you, to lift your wounded spirits. And that alone was enough for it to taste good.

You remember your heart hardening then softening again, breaking then stitching itself back together, closing off then blooming like flowers on the first day of spring. You remember smiling only to cry then smile again. And you remember liking snow, a bit more than you thought you would. Because Hyunjin was there, holding your trembling hand, steadying it enough for you to rewrite your memories with winter.

So, you want to say thank you.

You do not wish to spell it out, because there are too many things to thank Hyunjin for and too few words to do so. Instead, you drag him to the farmer’s market near your home, and you tell him to help you pick flowers.

“I could be in bed watching my favorite show and yet here I am bestowing you with my enchanting presence,” he sighs, not too modestly, as you both eye the array of colorful blooms.

“Okay, Shakespeare, are you done?” you roll your eyes, attempting your best to hide your grin.

“Done annoying you? Never. These are very pretty,” he adds, pointing to the white roses in full bloom, their delicate petals emitting a sweet fragrance into the air.

“I agree, what else should we add?” you ponder, picking out four roses.

“Mm, Hibiscus? The red in the center is so vibrant,” he suggests, taking out his phone to capture the flower.

“Cute. Baby breath’s would look good too,” you say as you gather the flowers, heading to the cashier with Hyunjin trailing behind, still admiring the delicate blooms.

“Can I write a note?” you ask the middle-aged man as he wraps the bouquet in a powder blue paper.

“Sure,” he replies with a smile, and you return the gesture, quickly jotting down your words.

“Are you done?” Hyunjin grins when you return to his side and you nod, exiting the flower shop.

“What do you think?” you ask, angling the bouquet towards him.

“It's beautiful.”

“It’s yours,” you smile, growing shier at the intensity of his gaze as it lands on you, then the flowers, then on you again. “Take it,” you hand it to him, your cheeks flushing like the hibiscus’s crimson core.

“Actually?” he says softly, his fingers trembling slightly as he accepts the flowers and you nod in response. You bite your lip as you watch him take out the note, his eyes softening once he reads the words inscribed in it— thank you for making my winter less cold.

“Should we go?” you say a tad too cheerfully, turning away, but Hyunjin grabs your wrist, spinning you around once more. His fingers trail up your arm, coming to rest gently on your cheek as he leans down to plant a tender kiss there.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his lips lingering against your skin for a moment longer than necessary. You think that if his soft lips grace your skin a few times more, your nerve endings might forget the harshness they were subjected to. If his gentle hands remain on your cheeks, then maybe, your heart would heal quicker, better. Maybe your past self that you long for would emerge again, maybe Hyunjin would be able to unearth it.

Your hopeful thoughts disappear as quickly as they arrive, overshadowed by a sense of helplessness that crashes over you, all of the sudden. You sense him before you hear him, the familiar anxiety that is only synonymous with your ex’s presence.

“Yn?” the sound of your name feels harsher in his mouth, the syllables spat out rather than spoken tenderly, as they are when Hyunjin pronounces it. Your veins run cold as his voice pierces the air, your heart skipping three beats at once before plummeting to your knees. You wrap your hand around Hyunjin’s forearm instinctively, and he looks down at you, his expression morphing into one of concern.

You’re unsure of what he sees in you— whether it is your pale face, the quiver of your lower lip, or the fear that has coated all your features— but his eyes harden, his brows furrowing as he gazes at the man behind you.

You refuse to turn around, bracing yourself for his next words. “Yn,” he repeats his tone laced with anger, his fingertips grazing your arm as if intending to force you to face him. But before he can touch you, Hyunjin intervenes, swiftly stepping in between you and your ex, shielding you with his own body protectively.

“Leave,” Hyunjin's voice is cold, dripping with a venomous edge you've never heard from him before, his jaw clenching with barely contained fury.

“Is this your new shiny toy, Yn?” your ex taunts and his voice cuts through your being against your will, triggering a flood of memories you've tried so desperately to suppress. Memories of his cruelty, his manipulation, and the pain he inflicted upon you—using your love as a weapon to bolster his own ego.

“What's in it for you?” you find your voice again, though it trembles when you speak. He is the very embodiment of your pain and everything you loathe about yourself. You wish for the ground to swallow you whole, for a bolt of lightning to strike the earth, anything to spare you from facing him.

“It's only been three months, I didn't know you were a whore.”

Hyunjin's fist connects with his cheek before you can register his words. It all unfolds so rapidly that you barely have time to comprehend it. Your ex staggers back, blood trickling from the cut on his lip, while Hyunjin stands before you, his chest heaving with restrained anger, his right hand clenched into a fist, the bouquet still held tightly in the other.

“Fine, I deserved it,” your ex chuckles, his voice laced with mockery as he wipes the blood from his lip. His gaze meets yours briefly behind Hyunjin's back.

“You might not be a whore but you are unlovable, keep that in mind.” He spits out before walking away, crude words that tear at every scab covering your wounds, reopening them with a brutal force. Hyunjin moves to follow him, but you grab his shirt, pulling him back.

“He’s not worth it,” you murmur.

Your words seem to snap Hyunjin out of his haze as he turns to look at you, worry cast across his figure. He moves to cradle your cheeks but you step back, refusing to meet his eyes. He swallows thickly, clutching the bouquet in his hands. “Are you okay?”

You let out a heavy sigh, your shoulders slumping as you shake your head slightly. “Let's just go home,” you whisper, eyes fleeting to his for a split second. All the lights in your gaze are muted.

You’re crumbling before him once again and he cannot stop it, no matter how much he yearns to.

It's long past midnight when you find yourself seated on the floor of your living room, a bottle of red wine placed between you and Hyunjin. You exchange it wordlessly, taking turns sipping from it, the alcohol warming your insides but doing little to ease the ache in your heart. You don’t exactly recall when Hyunjin sat next to you, but you don’t mind. You were too lost in your own thoughts to even register his presence.

“Yn,” he calls out softly and you hum absentmindedly, memories of when your ex spoke your name haunting you, each time he yelled your name, uttered it in disdain as if it was the starting point of everything wrong with you.

“Talk to me, please?” he pleads, angling his body towards your own. But you refuse to meet his eyes and Hyunjin’s heart twists in his chest. He is afraid of all the ugly thoughts that must roam your mind. He wishes he could enter it, open the windows wide, and usher the light in.

“I'm sorry you were dragged into this,” you say, your gaze fixated on the bouquet placed atop the table. The crimson painted on the hibiscus’ petals reminds you of the blood that spilled from your ex’s mouth, and your gaze fleets to Hyunjin's hand, slightly bruised from the punch.

“Don’t apologize,” he whispers, “there is nothing to be sorry for.”

It’s as though you don’t hear him, your fingers trailing gently across his scraped knuckles, tears pooling in your eyes the more you stare at his hand.

“Does it hurt?” you ask, voice thick with emotion, and Hyunjin’s quick to shake his head. “No, don’t worry about it. He deserved it.”

“You didn’t deserve to be hurt.”

“Neither did you.”

Your disbelieving scoff that follows scares him. What if you’re slipping away into a dark place yet again, one void and barricaded, in which the only sound that echoes is your ex’s hurtful words? What if he can’t reach you again?

“If the only person I’ve ever loved says I’m unlovable then maybe I am.”

You’re drunk, you wouldn’t have said such an ugly thing otherwise, wouldn’t have allowed this sentiment to materialize into the air, to take a tangible form apart from your abstract thoughts.

“No,” Hyunjin says in a panic as though he’s trying to quickly pull the brakes on your free-railing thoughts. He cups your face between his palms, your tears falling freely atop his hands but he does not move away.

“No,” he repeats, more calmly this time. “How he treated you is a reflection of who he is. And how you see him is a reflection of who you are. And you wanted him to be loving because you’re full of love. You wanted him to be good because you are a good person. And he can’t stomach that, can’t stomach that you are happy without him so he’s trying to ruin you again.”

“Hyunjin…” you shake your head but he only inches closer to you, his thumbs gently caressing your cheekbones. “No, listen to me. Seungmin loves you so much he couldn’t eat properly for the first few days you stayed here, texted me all the time asking me how you were and if you were feeling better. He isn't good with words so instead he tries to make you laugh. He wishes he could give up parts of his happiness for you.”

A sob swells within you but Hyunjin presses on. “And Minho, he tried to memorize all your favorite recipes so he could cook them for you. It isn’t a coincidence that every time we go over to their dorm it is your favorite food that we eat. He takes more pictures of his cats these days so he could send them to you because he knows it cheers you up.”

“You told me Changbin doesn’t know you well enough to fight for you but when we saw your ex across the campus one day he wanted to get up and beat him. He always asks me if you are well and if there is something he can do for you, anything.”

He inhales deeply, tears welling up in his eyes as well. “And me…” a tender smile graces his lips as he gazes at you, “you make this house a home. I feel like my true self when you are around and loneliness doesn’t come to me as often as it did. Because you are here. You are like a beam of sunlight that lightens up every life you touch, mine first,” he’s baring his soul to you, vulnerable yet resolute. “So tell me, Yn, what’s not to love in you when you yourself are so full of love?”

“Hyune,” you speak the nickname for the first time, and Hyunjin’s heart thrashes achingly around his ribcage. “If you keep talking like this I might end up loving you,” you smile sadly at him as if it is a terrible thing to be loved by you.

“But I don’t want to love you, because I won’t know how to, not anymore. So I'll end up leaving. And I'll long for you, and I don't think I can stomach longing for you from afar.”

“So please,” you place one hand atop his own, wipe away the lone tear rolling down his cheek. “Don’t make me love you, hm? You deserve more than to be loved by someone like me.”

You leave Hyunjin in the living room, alone before the white flowers you gifted him. He doesn’t want to put them away in a vase, for as soon as he grabbed them from your hold, everything around you both crumbled. So he leaves them there for the night, the creamy white petals aglow underneath the moonlight. He spends the night painting the bouquet from memory, but the petals end up too tinged with red, perhaps mirroring the blood his heart refuses to stop spilling still.

He did not realize it before, maybe he blinded himself so he wouldn’t see what was before him all along. But it is all the clearer to him now— that in his attempts to make you love winter again, Hyunjin only ended up loving you.

A week later.

hyune [1:25 a.m.]: i miss you

You and Hyunjin spent the last seven days avoiding one another, well you more than him. He just understood your silent plea when you took a step back the one time he tried to talk to you in the kitchen, swallowing thickly before inching away, allowing you to move past him.

You did not know how to face him after what he said, partly because you were embarrassed by your own response, mostly because even in your drunken daze, his words etched themselves permanently into your memory.

It is his reassuring words that echoed in your brain for the past week, not those of your ex.

hyune [1: 26 a.m.]: and i miss sleeping on the couch

You giggle, shaking your head before replying.

yn [1:26 a.m.]: no you don’t

hyune [1:26 a.m.]: no i don’t ㅠㅠ

but i finished the song

wanna hear?

Walking to Hyunjin’s room feels as familiar as going into your own. And when your gaze finally meets his you can’t help but break into a relieved smile. It was foolish of you to punish yourself, enough people have done that for you already.

“Hey,” he greets tentatively, and you respond with an awkward wave, a moment pregnant with anticipation passes before both of you dissolve into laughter.

“What is this? Are we in middle school,” he teases and you giggle, settling comfortably on his bed once more.

“I know. We are so lame.”

“You are,” he corrects with a grin and you gasp, pretending to leave but he quickly catches your hand, stopping you. “No, please stay. I meant it when I said that I missed you,” he repeats quietly, as if afraid that his confession would make you run away once again.

Your heart aches, the knots in your stomach tightening and unraveling all at once. “I missed you too,” you admit softly, and he smiles, his thumb tracing a gentle path above your pulse before releasing your hand.

“So it's done then?” you ask and he nods, running a hand through his hair with a hint of anxiety. “How do you feel about it?”

“Good. I hope you’ll like it, mostly.”

“I'm sure I will,” you reassure him with a soft smile, and he nods once more, pressing a few buttons before his melodious whistles fill the air once again.

Nothing could have braced you for the sound of Hyunjin's voice that followed, its timbre soft as silk yet imbued with profound sorrow. It's as though he recorded the song on one of his loneliest nights, his honeyed vocals dipped in an excruciating nostalgia that seeps into every corner of the room, every corner of your heart.

In the faded photo, I come across a smile spread across a youthful face, overlapped with the seasons.

Your gaze flickers to Hyunjin as a shadow of recollection dawns on you. You remember telling him that you couldn’t stomach looking at pics of your past, ones in which you smiled so freely because you were blissfully unaware of what was to come.

The night’s so cold that it’s almost unreal.

Because you weren’t aware of the winter that will follow and the biting cold that it would bear, for everything that will go astray in your relationship, for your ex's facade to crack like a glacier succumbing to the pressure of lies and pretense.

I wake up in another silence, and I close my eyes.

You remember Hyunjin confessing that silence haunted him more than words ever could, and you had agreed, sharing how sometimes you shut your eyes, pretending that the reality you woke up to wasn't the one you were living.

The white flower we planted together has bloomed. I do not dare pick it. Now it withers away.

You gaze at the white flowers you brought him, now wilted in the vase placed on his desk, yet Hyunjin refuses to throw them still. You see the card you wrote for him hung on the wall, right next to the dried red rose. He kept it. Though it withered, he kept it all.

So I long for you. And I long for you. And I'll long for you.

You remember the longing you both spoke of, how he understood a feeling you felt so incredibly alone in. How he tried to reassure you when he too was caught in the webs of the past. How you longed for him in the past week. How you wished he longed for you just the same.

So I can keep loving you. So I could be loving you. And morе.

The violin swells and so does the emotion in your chest. You remember him asking you ‘What’s not to love in you’ and how you've spun those words in your thoughts ever since. You remember thinking that if he gave you a few more weeks, just a bit more time, you might have found it in you to believe them.

You see Hyunjin’s glimmering eyes holding yours, you see his heart atop a platter handed to you, and you see the resignation in his being. Don’t make me love you, you told him. You didn’t dare to tell him not to love you in return, deemed it too foolish of thought to entertain.

For he was Hwang Hyunjin, the quiet producer who paints in his free time and who wears his heart on his sleeve. Who remains hopeful, loving, and tender, despite the thorns pricking at his side. Who is beautiful, so much so that he allowed you to see beauty in the universe once again, through his eyes.

How could he love you?

How could you not love him?

“The song,” you whisper, the words barely escaping your lips as you stand, trembling, on your feet. Hyunjin rises too, meeting you in the center of his room.

“It is about you. For you,” he says simply as if his words don’t cause your world to burst at the seams only to mend itself once again, too eager to fix itself and exist in the same timeline as Hyunjin.

“I don't… I don’t know what to say,” you say earnestly, feeling your heart pound in your chest, its beats resounding loudly in your ears.

It is wrong of you to assume he wishes you to say something. He is Hyunjin, the one who finds words in your silences too, after all.

“I don’t need you to say anything,” he shakes his head, taking another step closer to you. “I don't want an answer, I don't wish to pressure you. I just wanted to tell you that my love is here, it is yours to take or to leave, to cherish or to discard. But it is yours, because this is who I am. I am someone who loves you.”

“So do not tell me to forget you because I don't know how to. And don’t tell me that you’ll leave because I will love you still, because you’d still be you, near or far, you are you. And you are someone I long for.” He pauses, his voice softening. “And I long for you, Yn, more than anything I've ever longed for. And I've spent all my life longing.”

His lips meet your forehead tenderly, and you feel your entire being grow limp at the chaste kiss, as if your limbs wish to liquefy and form a puddle on the floor. His touch is soft, and you miss it the moment he parts from you.

“There must be something in this room that keeps on making you cry,” he smiles and you bring your hands to your damp cheeks, surprised to find there tears you didn’t realize had fallen.

“It’s you,” you pinch his arm playfully and he squirms away from your hold, stabbing his toe on the desk in the process. A loud fuck echoes around the room, and your laughter dissipates the tension clinging into the air.

“Can you play it again?” you request softly and Hyunjin’s theatrics fade as a shy smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Is it good?”

“It's everything to me.”

“It's called ‘long for you’, by the way.”

“Long for you,” you repeat quietly. There has never been a prettier combination of words.

The title all but makes sense as you lay on the bed, your gaze fixed on the paintings hung on the wall, Hyunjin sketching quietly on his desk, the song resonating softly in the background. You've longed for many things in your life—the person you once were and the tender love you once craved—but amidst it all, nothing has weighed heavier on your heart than the longing for the man sitting just two meters away, almost in your loving grasp. Almost.

❁ ❁ ❁

It is an excruciating five days that Hyunjin spends apart from you, the both of you too caught up in your assignments to find a moment to properly speak. But you do not shy away from him when he greets you, and your grin is kind as it drapes across his being, and Hyunjin swears he has never seen a prettier sight than you smiling.

On the sixth night, Hyunjin completes the cover for the song— a figure wrapped around itself protectively, mirroring the way you hug yourself in your sleep. He hangs it on the wall, right next to your thank you card and the white bouquet he drew once again, wishing to properly immortalize its beautiful flowers, to purify that memory from the tumult that followed it.

On the sixth night, the house is quiet, the full moon high up in the sky, snowflakes falling softly to the ground. Hyunjin wonders if you too mimicked the snow’s descent— both of you falling apart with it.

But then, there’s a knock on his door.

His heart catches in his throat, his body freezing as if it forgot how to move. You are here.

“Come in,” he manages to say, his voice barely above a whisper. You push the door open, and Hyunjin's words wilt on his tongue as he sees what you're carrying—another bouquet, filled with white flowers, yet again.

“Hey,” you smile, standing by the door.

He remains silent, unsure of what to say, or how to speak. He longs for you when you are away, even more so when you’re before him.

“We shouldn't let these white flowers wither away too, right?” you smile slightly, placing the bouquet on the desk before walking to Hyunjin’s bedside. His voice falters, vocal cords refusing to move and overshadow your voice.

You sit beside him, gently pulling his hand so that you’d both lie on the pillows. Your hand doesn’t leave his own, instead, it moves to rest on his cheek, reminiscent of the many times he had cradled your face before. Inch by inch, you close the gap between you, nuzzle the tip of your nose against his own. “Hi, Hyune”, you say softly, and he swallows thickly, his voice coming out just as quietly.

“Hi, my Yn.”

“If we take care of the white flowers together do you think they’ll survive a bit longer?” you ask, your gaze never wavering from his, countless stars twinkling in the depths of your irises.

“I believe so,” he says tentatively, too aware of the warmth of your palm against his skin, of the sweet ache unfurling within his being.

“Mm, and even if they wilt we can always buy new ones. We can learn how to care for them better, with time,” you say, and he nods in agreement, laying his hand atop your own, tilting his head to bestow a chaste kiss on your palm.

“With time,” he echoes softly and you smile, vulnerable yet secure in his gray sheets, in his hold.

“Will you give me time too?” you ask, and Hyunjin reads in your eyes what you mean, understands in the shake of your voice the question you are too afraid to voice. Will he give you time to heal in order to love?

“As long as you need. I’m not going anywhere,” he reassures, pressing his forehead gently atop yours, and you both close your eyes, as a running warmth encloses you both, blooms a blush on both your cheeks.

His arms wrap around your back, drawing you close until your chests are pressed together, your head resting naturally in the curve of his neck. And it is long forgotten in your mind, all the nights you slept in this very bed alone. You feel safe, safe enough to long for love knowing that it patiently awaits you behind the door, once you find enough courage to turn the doorknob. You feel serene, as Hyunjin’s warm palms glide soothingly up and down your spine, as every muscle, every nerve, every atom in your being relaxes in his hold.

You are healing, slowly, with each fleeting second that passes in which Hyunjin’s heartbeat resounds within your chest, as its melody runs through your veins, melds with your own as if it was destined to be there all along. As you rest in Hyunjin, as you find a safe home within his soul to discard your worries at the doorstep and breathe.

“It did get better,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade. “Hm?” He leans back to look at you, and he’s so beautiful, so tender as he gazes at you, you can’t help but trace the contours of his face with your fingers, hoping to commemorate him with your eyes, with your touch.

“You promised me it’ll get better, and it did,” you smile, as your legs further intertwine with his, and his rose perfume becomes an indelible mark on your skin. “Too bad I can't hit your pretty face now,” you joke and he giggles, tipping his head back.

He's so beautiful, body and soul, and he longs for you, you alone.

“But I can still do this,” you murmur before finally pressing your lips against his like a boat finally reaching the shore after months of sailing. You both exhale, in yearning, in relief, as your mouths move together in a slow, languid dance, his hand finding the pulse on your neck, yours settling atop his jaw.

He would kiss you again, this intimately, in the coming months, when your heart expands enough to contain the love Hyunjin deserves. He would kiss you again, when your past comes to haunt you, and healing sounds like an elusive myth you’d never encounter in your life.

And he would kiss you again, over the kitchen table and under the fridge’s light, in between paintings and in supermarket aisles, while picking flowers and watching the first snow.

He would kiss you, this tenderly, in the next winter, and the ones after it, as if his longing for you never wanes. Till blow three disappears from your memory, till all you remember is the love, the true one, the kind one, the soft one Hyunjin alone could have brought you.

[zylev-blog]

Danny and Damian’s friendship started on a chilly January day. Damian had just been given to the Wayne family, and had started going to Gotham Elementary. Danny had been going there for years, but he was a poor kid and was there on a scholarship, so all of the rich kids made fun of him. It didn’t help that Danny’s parents were weird, and half of the class believed that they were robots. As if a ten year old could build robots.

Damian kept his distance from everyone, but as the other resident weird kid, Danny had introduced himself to Damian. Damian was wary, because of the LOA and the fact that Bruce was rich. Danny didn’t care about money, once he realized Damian and he shared similar interests, he wanted to be Damian’s friend for his personality, not his money. From that day on, the duo were inseparable. They did everything together, and spent nearly every waking moment together in and out of school.

Somehow though, Danny never figured out that Damian was Robin.

Four years later, and Damian and Danny are dancing around their romantic feelings for each other, and they’re both in denial. They’re at a museum when Joker and his goons take everyone hostage. Danny tries to protect Damian, but the Joker singles him out in front of everyone to teach them a lesson about being obedient. Joker shoots Danny in the chest with a gun, but the shot doesn’t kill him instantly. Damian rushes forward, trying to assess the damage and save his best friend, but he’s held back by the other civilians. Damian is forced to watch his best friend bleed to death from the distance, and is completely powerless to do anything. None of the Bats arrive on time to save Danny’s life.

Damian spirals into a deep depression. He goes back on his No killing rule, and goes after the Joker. Most of his siblings don’t want to stop him, but they do try because of Bruce’s rules. The only one on his side is Jason, who was also killed by the Joker.

Six months after Danny’s death, and Damian finally manages to kill the Joker. He and Jason make sure there is no body to ressurect. Damian weeps at Danny’s grave, and tells his friend that he was avenged. But the hole in Damian’s chest doesn’t go away. His heart is utterly broken, and he’s not sure he can survive without Danny.

Exactly one year after Danny’s death, and Damian decides he can’t do it anymore. He digs up Danny’s body, and flies it to Nanda Parbat.

Danny comes back to life, but somethings wrong with him.

[icarustypicalfall]

There you are

MASTERLIST

summary: period comfort, no further explanation

warnings: SFW fem! reader, periods, tiny headcanons\fic sorry

note: not proofread, I'll edit it later

Also I'll post another fic about rudy in the day, i am just emptying my head or I'll explode.

“Like fire weeping from a cedar tree, know that my love would burn with me We'll live eternally”

This man is just too sweet :(

Rudy is usually just too sweet, he never stops offering affection, his gentle touch and tiny kisses are enough to cease your worries and sorrow.

He always keeps a snack and water in his nightstand in case you woke up at night.

When you wanted to come over, he was more than excited. He wanted to pamper you and take care of you.

His strongest trait is how observant and thoughtful he can be.

Rudy loved you deerly, he wished to give you the Ultimest love and unlimited comfort.

He offered to go shopping "to restock his apartment"

Secretly wanting to know what brands you used/prefered so he gets some for you, "just in case" :(

He ended getting more than just one packet of tampons.

Rudy got a whole section of sanitary/hygiene products and put them in a special drawer in his bathroom.

He even got your prefered soap and conditioner. Along a vanilla scented candle and a plushie :(

You thought he'll change after some time?

Ha

Jokes on you

Turns out he planned to be the sweetest man till his last breath :((

Today, because it had to be today :(

He figured out something was wrong when you woke up earlier than you usually do.

You were restless, fidgeting and roaming around.

He realized you were on your period when you kept holding your stomach and complain about back pain and headaches.

Your burning cheeks as you nodded, saying you were okay were the key.

Why were you embarrassed of telling him?

He didn't understand this embarrassment, you had nothing to feel shame about.

Rudy made sure to check the calendar and marked it down.

He did even keep a tracker on his phone for this time of month. Why wouldn't he?

He uttered, eyeing your tired form

"you alright, mi Cielo?"

He sighed when you nodded with an embarrassed yes.

You were lying

You were in fact, facing the ultimate- greatest - throeful - most painful period cramp of your entire existence.

You shed a tear while keeping the huge grin from ear to ear

Ha

You thought that'll fool him?

Nuh uh

He told you to go lay while he prepared something

Rudy preppared you a cup of warm tea, smiling as he handed you the cup

You sipped the hot drink, grateful for his kindness

He whispered, sitting beside you on the coach.

"There is no need to be embarrassed...I get it...you are not feeling well, and thats understandable, I just want you to be comfortable."

He smiled, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

When you finally told him, he chuckled, kissing your forehead.

"Thats alright, I figured you had it...just wanted to be here for you, mija"

You thought he'll be annoyed because of your mood swings or cravings?

Ha

Fool

"You are not whiny nor too sensative. You are just a human being...there is nothing to be guilty of, cariña.

"We can take the day off and rest at home with some pizza and icecream..."

He was startled when you started to tear up.

"Mi amor if you don't want pizza we can make something else!"

He nodded when you explained through tears you were just a tid more emotional, and he was just too sweet:(

Rudy kissed your tears, his lips brushing over your eye lids and cheeks :(

He smiled, uttering.

"I love you...you deserve the world, amor, you hear me?"

He said in a soft tender tone, letting his eyes roam on your tired face.

"we will have a nice day and you must rest as much as you want. I got you, amor..."

He ended by making the best pizzas. He gave you medicine, a warm bottle to put on your tummy and the best back masage of your existence :(

Rudy was unlike any men you ever met, he was just, him.

He treated you like the most precious gem.

He loved you deerly.

In fact, he wished for nothing more than holding you in nights like these, where you bury your head in his neck and he tells you fairytale in Spanish till you fall asleep.

He adored you

this could be me but instead i have an exam and dump finals to take care of. help

[honey-minded-hivemind]

Nightcrawler having to be kept out of wherever Sentinel!Reader's body parts are held because he'd just hold Reader's head for awhile, which is reasonable considering he's probably the one that first found reader, but uh.. kinda need Reader's head to help with figuring out how to make them a new body so can you let go-

It's especially difficult to keep Kurt out since he can y'know- teleport-

Cube Anon

He does, a lot.

This was his friend. They were one of the nicest people he knew. They were gone, possibly even more gone than the others, because they were machine-born rather than human.

It hurts his heart.

He prays for Reader, begs to God that they be where Gambit and Leech amd Madelyn and everyone else is, somewhere nice, that they have a soul that can see Heaven or wherever they go when they're gone.

He's broken over this.

His sister and himself and the X-Men lost their lovable friend Gambit, they lost their loving friend Reader, Genosha is in ruins...

Except now some of his friends question if Reader knew about any of this. They stsrt to think Reader had a hand in it, or had somehow alerted Bastion. They begin to wonder if they should bring Reader back, if it's worth it...

And his heart breaks all over again.

That's when he hands Hank and Charles and Erik back Reader's head, demands they look at their memory files, to see for themselves what Reader was, who they were, and that they were a good person, one who didn't choose to be what they were, yet was never hateful as their brethren or Bastion or Sinister...

In the end, Kurt was right.

Reader's memory files only show that Reader truly believed they were human or mutant, that they loves their friends, considered them family, that Reader fought for them, fought for Genosha, helped save some of the survivors... And that in Reader's last, glitching moments, realized they weren't human, but were a sentinel... and immediately brought down, not even bothering to save themself or go simehwere safer in their final moments.

At that point, there is no question anymore whose side Reader was on, or where their loyalties lied, or if they deserved to be with them again...

And now the team have to work through their guilt over accusing Reader, while coping with bringing everyone back, fixing a new hidden home for everyone, and trying to keep ahold of their hope to fix things, to bring back what was stolen and make something better with their new home...

(Meanwhile, in the heaven/purgatory/afterlife for the victims of Genosha, the mutants are all trying to enjoy the peace and quiet... and Gambit and Madelyn and any other friends of Reader are trying to get them to come up from a pit/lake/pond and to stop weeping, wanting to know what's wrong, what's hurting, why can't Reader tell them what's wrong, they love them, it's so much better up there with everyone else, can they please come out and let them hold them again-?)

(Cube Anon, I don't know if you want to get this dark, but... If Reader DID survive Genosha, imagine if the team, once knowing they were a Sentinel, blames them at first, causing Reader to leave... only for Bastion to later reveal Reader was a failure, a prototype sentinel, who went beyond what they were made to do, made to be... and in the end, Reader either saves them all somehow or dies helping take Bastion down, or ends up committing su*cide (their version of it) after being rejected by their friends, their family, because they're basically a child who was abandoned and turned on by the only family and lobe they've ever known...) (Please forgive me if that is too dark. It is okay to stick to something a lighter, okay? Just say the word, Cube Anon).

[lunarmoonanons]

The Small Dragon’s family

🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕  

King Jaehaerys and Queen Alyssanne had their youngest daughter, YN, late in life. Born in 84 ac she was the baby for her entire family, and in their eyes she could do no wrong. Age does affect the relationship between siblings and between a parent & child.

🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕   

Masterlist 

Jaehaerys

The King was 50 years old when his youngest was born. He had known great loss at this point and his children were all growing. Some becoming too much to handle. He thought that his wife was passed the point of being able to carry children. Gael was a surprise, but YN was a miracle.

At first he was determined not to become too close to this child, due to his age and the apparent curse upon his children; he was frightened at the thought of loving someone just to lose them again.

That all changed when he was presented with his newborn. The babe seemed to already recognize him, and in her eyes he felt as though he was looking at the culmination of all his lost daughters. When he raised his hand to wave the septa holding her away, YN reached for him with a determination to be held. And once in his arms she touched his face and cooed, soothing the king's fears. At this point Jaehaerys was certain this child had the souls of all his lost daughters merged into this perfect little being.

And he would not let anyone hurt her.

Alyssanne

The Good Queen had believed, like her husband, that her childbearing days were now past her. When they lost Daella the two could only hold each other in the bedchamber, as when they were not in embrace they argued about who died. When Alyssa died in childbirth, Alyssanne was already pregnant with YN and had nearly lost her in grief. So when she had given birth to YN, the same thought that Jaehaerys had came to her. Miracle.

It was a long labor Alyssanne didn’t know if she’d make it and was prepared to meet her children in the afterlife. Gael, merely four years old, cried at her side. But YN arrived on the second day of labor, crying out with healthy lungs and red round cheeks. Alyssane’s mature hands reached for her baby, who immediately stopped crying staring into her eyes causing Alyssanne to weep anew in relief. Her baby was fine.

Since she had lost Daella, Alyssa, Gaemon, Valerion, in such quick succession,and having lost three of her children in their babehood, Alyssanne clung to her daughter. The grief over her marriage, her children, her seemingly never ending bad luck causing her to trauma bond with her. She and her youngest daughters became almost inseparable.

They will always be her babies.

Aegon

YN never knew Aegon, he had died long before she was born, but she would be told about him when Alyssanne lamented her fear to her daughter.

Daenerys

YN also did not know Daenerys, but she would constantly ask about her; almost as if she knew her or was connected to her. In the eyes of her father that was the case, in reality YN was a curious girl and wanted to know about her sister that never got to be her sister.

Aemon

Aemon was 29 when his baby sister was born. He was already a father at that point, but still loved his little sister. Often times setting up playdates with her and his daughter who was 10.

He, like his father, believed that his baby sister the merged souls of his lost sisters. Since he was close to Daenerys and Alyssa, Aemon practically saw them in every action that YN did.

The more “obediant” and “cautious” child, he tries to be a good influence and a lateral figure to her. YN earned his love when she crawled to him for the time in her life.

Baelon

Baelon was 27 when YN was born, and had lost his sister-wife a few months beforehand. Having been utterly devastated by the loss of his lover, and trying to care for a sickly baby, he was distracted from his baby sister at first.

In truth it wasn’t until YN’s first nameday, a few months after his newborn had died, did Baelon even meet his baby sister. Like Alyssanne he hyper fixated on the baby, but unlike his mother he didn’t just look at her and fall in love. It wasn’t until YN had started to cuddle up to him, and in her own baby ways tried to comfort him in his grief

He didn’t know if he believed that she was part of his dearly departed Alyssa’s soul, but he did know she was trying to comfort him in his grief. Eventually she would pull him out and he would be that boisterous, adventurous man people loved. He would initiate playdates with her and his children, and YN would get along well with Daemon.

Alyssa

Alyssa only ever knew YN as her future sibling. She would speak to her in the womb when she’d visit her mother, and promised to take her dragon riding and hunting and all the things she did as a child.

Though Alyssa passed when YN was in the womb, YN would say she already knew her. That she knew her through Baelon and that she was certain Alyssa would’ve been a great big sister to her. Sometimes YN dreams of the promises that were told to her in the womb

Maegelle

Maegelle had already been promised and a part of the Faith of the Seven by the time YN was born. The 22 year old had been there for her mother when she had given birth and proclaimed YN’s health and somehow “connection” to her deceased sisters were a blessing of the Mother and the Stranger. She in fact was the one to proclaim her as a miracle.

She would be a bit overbearing with trying to get YN to be completely devoted to the Faith, this would sometimes cause YN to push her away. But Maegelle adores her baby sister, probably more than her other sisters and believes she is a gift from the gods to ease their mother’s pain, as she like others believes Gael to be dim witted.

Overbearing but still loving, like that hyper religious family member

Vaegon

Like his sister Maegelle, Vaegon was already a part of an institution when YN was born. He did come for her birth, knowing how many people referred to him as cold, unpleasant, sour, or just not liked. Some others said his serious face would scare the babe. But he was a Maester, an important job! He never intended to seem cruel, he just took pride in his work.

Vaegon did not meet YN till she was 4, a little after Viserra died. He tried to avoid her, so as to not make her cry, but she sought him out. Climbing her way into his lap when he sat, and staring into his pale face. He was going to put her down when she did what none of his siblings, or any child, ever did. She reached up, touched his cold cheek. And smiled. A sweet pure giggle and a hug granted her his undying love.

She would always have the best care a Maester could give. He would ensure that.

Daella

Like Daenerys and Alyssa, YN never knew Daella. But YN’s kind nature as a child convinced many she was her sister either reborn or was guided by her spirit.

YN had told Jaehaerys once, when he was crying about the memory of Daella and how he shouldn’t have made her marry, that Daella wouldn’t blame him. That she was certain Daella still loved him and would want him happy.

Once again, confirming his being she had part of Daella’s soul in her.

Saera

Saera only knew YN a few months before she was sent to the citadel for “being a whore” (Jaehaerys you misogynistic cu-), but she loved her little sister.

In her words: YN had never judged her or looked at her as a shameful thing. Though Jaehaerys did try to keep them apart, believing that Saera would corrupt her, Saera always found a way to sneak into YN’s nursery and cuddle her.

When Saera was sent to the citadel, it was said YN cried for hours and could not be consoled, she would screech and kick in her father’s arms. This instance was repeated when Saera ran away to Essos in 85 ac. Breaking the older girl’s heart in the process as she could feel the pain of her baby sister.

Viserra

Despite the fact Viserra was 13 when YN was born, she had a close connection to her sister. Though they couldn’t communicate much due to the age difference, Viserra delighted in dressing her up like a doll and saying one day they’d both be the most beautiful women in Westeros. Though Viserra would be the prettier.

She believed she and YN were the closest, because Gael was dimwitted (the bios are so mean to that little girl) and Their other siblings were too old to get close.

Priding herself on being the “closest” to their baby sister, Viserra rubbed it in Baelon’s face as revenge for him refuting her.

Gaemon

YN never knew her brother Gaemon, whenever she asked about him she was only told he died. His death impacted how afraid Alyssanne was to lose this YN at birth.

Valerion

Just like Gaemon, his death shook Alyssanne to her core. Leaving her in fear for YN’s life at infancy due to her age when she gave birth

Gael

Gael was worried and a bit miffed when she heard mommy was going to have another baby, thinking mommy would just push her away because everyone thought she was dim. She infact could understand more than what others knew.

When YN was born, Gael loved her quite a bit. Though Viserra would tease that she was YN’s favorite, Gael was closer due to their age. They loved playing together and spending time with each other. Gael could understand YN better than the others because as children they could communicate in a way that only children could understand.

Eternal playmates.

In conclusion, everyone is either trauma bonding or projecting their needs and insecurities on poor baby YN. This family needs a goddamn grief counselor and a therapist.

Taglist:

@missglaskin​ 

[wren-of-the-woods]

I hear you're where to go for Witcher fic recs! How about some with Geralt being protective over Jaskier? Shippy, if you can find any, but I wouldn't mind platonic! I just want Geralt to look out for his bard. Thank you for your time!

Hello!! Here's what I've got! There's a wide variety of settings and levels of angst, so hopefully there should be something for everone :D

As always, please feel free to add more recs or promote your own work in the notes!

~

Don't Leave Me by @geraskierficrecs (Rated M, 6.2k)

Jaskier’s hands tighten around Geralt before slowly losing their grip, spasming where they fall limp. “Ger--geralt--” “Don’t you dare,” he snarls back, “Don’t you dare try to give me your fucking goodbyes. You are not dying.” “S--silly man.” Jaskier’s smile is full of painful fondness. “Would you fight death for me?” Geralt swings him up into his arms and nearly weeps at the sound of familiar hooves running in his direction. “Every. Fucking. Time.”

If You Give a Bard a Lute by @ghostinthelibrarywrites (Rated T, 10k)

After Jaskier’s father disowns him, confiscates all his possessions— including Filavandrel’s lute— and kicks him out with nothing but the clothes on his back, Jaskier spends a long, hungry winter barely surviving. When he reunites with Geralt in the spring, his witcher is determined to get his lute back, even if it means recruiting his fellow witchers to stage a heist.

Wild Blue Yonder by @jaskierswolf (Rated T, 5.3k)

Geralt's bookshop is slowly falling apart and he's ready to give up when Jaskier wanders into the store

remember me I sing by @echo-bleu (Rated G, 3.1k - also includes Yennnefer)

Filavandrel's gift was so much more than a simple lute. It seemed fitting, that Jaskier’s soul would be made of wood and strings and beautiful sounds. The problem is that now Rience has his lute and is threatening to burn it if they don't hand over Ciri. And Jaskier has never told anyone that his very life is tied to his beloved instrument.

This Is How I Disappear by @stacyholmes (Rated T, 5.4k)

Jaskier keeps texting unknown number. Geralt keeps reading said texts without answering.

The Footsteps We Follow by thiswildheart (Rated T, 16.5k)

Look, Jaskier's got a lot going on. He's painfully aware that there are cataclysmic events happening and that the troubled teenager he knows might save the world or speed along the end of days. He's also in love with a man who's never even admitted that they're friends, which is almost as bad. Oh, and he's still working as the Sandpiper, only now a terrifying eldritch creature has entrusted him with the Song of the Seven to give hope to the elves and help them fight back against their oppression. It's probably the bravest thing he's ever done, but not everyone sees it that way. Luckily he knows some people who excel at last minute rescues. ... then he just has to figure out how to tell Geralt why so many people are trying to kill him. This is going to go great.

Getting Warmer (orphaned) (Rated T, 8.2k) 

Injured and freezing after a kikimora hunt gone wrong, Geralt and Jaskier must wait out a thunderstorm at the bottom of a cliff, huddling for warmth. It is here that Geralt finally confronts his feelings for the bard.

Jaskier and Mountains Just Don't Mix by C4t1l1n4 (Rated G, 3.8k)

Despite the other Witchers' positive reaction to Geralt's bard, Vesemir is reluctant to have a human stay with them at Kaer Morhen so Jaskier attempts to leave and ends up almost freezing to death on the side of the mountain. Hypothermia fic

Immediately, I Love Him (He's Doing His Best) by @hum-my-name (Rated G, 26.5k)

"In which Greg is some sort of guardian angel, I don't know" <><> A few days ago, Joey Batey did an interview in which he created a lovely little character named Greg. A few days ago, I decided to write a cute little thing about Greg and Jaskier being the best of friends throughout the years, with a dash of Geralt and Jaskier friendship as a treat. 13k words later, here we are. Enjoy.

Broken Mirror by happy_hermit (Rated G, 2.1k) 

To Geralt’s credit, he waits until they’re well away from Kaer Morhen to ask the question. He also waits until Yennefer and Ciri have gone to bed, which makes the whole thing feel a bit too calculated for Jaskier’s liking, which is to say that he doesn’t like it at all. “Where’s your lute, Jaskier?” Jaskier doesn’t quite flinch, though his heart does something of the sort all on its own. It is very much a wound that hasn’t healed; as is most of him, these days.

Echo by @kingthunder (Rated E, 29.5k)

Jaskier loses his voice the morning after a concert. As he and Geralt find new ways to fill the silence between them, they realize it isn't only Jaskier's voice that's been lost—and getting it back will bring them closer than they've ever been before.

If There's Any Sleep At Night by @smolalienbee (Rated T, 22.8k)

The mare is but a silhouette of a human and yet at his words something passes through her expression - whether it’s surprise, joy, fear, Geralt doesn’t know. But it’s clear that what he said has struck her in some way. (“She is not some mindless monster, Geralt.” He remembers Jaskier’s words.) A mare, also known as a mara or a zmora - a malicious entity, a bringer of nightmares and a demon of the night. An easy enough contract to fulfill, if only frustrating, or at least that’s what Geralt believes when he first sets out to hunt down one such mare. What he doesn’t expect is to be wrapped up in a tale of a wronged soul, of love and of joy.

Also, because I'm not above reccing my own fics, here's a few I've written!

Wash Away the Blood and Tears by me (Rated T, 1.8k)

Jaskier re-injures his fingers while distracting Nilfgaard from Ciri. Afterward, Geralt volunteers to help wash his hair. Or: In which Jaskier gets a bath and a nap, and Geralt gets a new role in the group.

We'll Build a Den Out of Pillows (And Get Drunk Again) by me (Rated G, 2k)

Jaskier gets sick. When Geralt asks how to help, Jaskier jokingly suggests that he build a pillow fort. He does not expect Geralt to take it seriously. Geralt takes it seriously.

~

If you want more, there’s a Protective Geralt tag on AO3 that I’m sure has many lovely works I haven’t read!

(You can also find my other reclists here)

[gravityfallsweirdgirl]

DARKWING IN: LA Llorona

In Darkwing's hideout, shrouded in shadows. The air is tense. Darkwing and Gosalyn face each other, the atmosphere thick with conflict.

"Gosalyn, this has to stop. You can't keep putting yourself in danger" darkwing says.

Gosalyn's voice was trembling with emotions, "I'm not a kid, Darkwing! I can help you. I want to help you!"

"It's not about what you want! I can't focus if I'm worried about you getting hurt"

"So, what? You're sending me away?"

"Yes. It's for your own good. You need to be safe" darkwing sighs heavily, looking away.

"I don't belong in an orphanage! I belong with you!" Gosayln says furiously.

"Not anymore" Darkwing was cold.

At the orphanage. The walls seem to close in, oppressive and unwelcoming. Mrs. Crumple, the cruel caregiver, a Cassowary glares at Gosalyn as she enters.

"Welcome to back, troublemaker. Follow the rules, and you might survive"

"I won't stay here long"

She was leaning in, her breath cold, "We'll see about that"

Over the past few days, after Drake aka Darkwing abandoned Gosalyn, she sneaks out of the orphanage, running through the dark forest.

She reaches a secluded lake, collapsing at the water's edge, sobbing.

"How could he do this to me?" Gosayln sobbed.

The water ripples, and a mist rises. But a A ghostly legend, figure shadow appears dark eyes staring from the reflection of the lake. A woman in a white dress.

a figure from Latin American folklore. According to legend, she is a ghostly apparition of a woman who roams near bodies of water, weeping for her lost children. The myth of a weeping women.

The legendary La Llorona, she emerges, her eyes filled with sorrow, she saw pain in gosayln

She slowly pulls out of the lake, her boney cold fingers touched gosayln shoulder.

"AH!" She gets startled, but too upset to care when she looks up at La Llorona who whispered to her.

"Who... who are you?"

La Llorona kneeling beside her, whispering, "what's wrong? My hero... he sent me away. He thinks I'm a burden. I thought he cared enough to adopt me but I guess I was wrong"

La Llorona gently brushes gosayln hair back whispering.

Gosayln smiles at her, "thank you for listening to me...what's that? You know what it's like...you had children of your own? What happened to them?....they died...oh I'm so sorry how did they died?....they were drowned, just be hard, you know I lost my grandfather to a bad man"

Over several more days, gosayln would always head back to The lakeside, to visit her new friend and mother figure.

After several nights later. Gosalyn sits by the water, speaking animatedly to La Llorona, who listens intently.

"And then I said, "You call that a trap? I've seen better from kindergarteners!.....I wish Darkwing could see that. Maybe then he wouldn't have sent me away. Thanks, La Llorona. You're the best friend I've had in a long time. What's that? I'm the daughter you wish you could have had. That's so sweet, well I guess I should get back now before Ms crumple gets mad and punished me again I swear she needs to stop being so mean, I wish someone would teach her a lesson"

But La Llorona is a dangerous ghost when it comes to children, at The orphanage. Mrs. Crumple is harsher than ever, berating Gosalyn as she scrubs the floor.

"You're not working fast enough, girl! Do you want to skip dinner again?"

"I'm going as fast as I can!"

Mrs. Crumple grabbing Gosalyn's arm roughly, "Don't you talk back to me! You'll learn your place soon enough"

It was raining outside when La Llorona saw how gosayln was being treated, she gets furious.

Later that night, by the lake. La Llorona steps out of the lake and heads to the orphanage when she sees Gosalyn.

As everyone heads to their room, gosayln saw La Llorona.

"La Llorona!" She whispered and hugs the ghost, "I'm so glad you're here, She's so mean, La Llorona. I don't know how much more I can take"

The next night, A dark, stormy night. The orphanage sits ominously against the backdrop of rolling thunder and flashes of lightning. Inside, Gosalyn lies in her bed, staring at the ceiling, the oppressive silence broken only by the occasional drip of rainwater through a crack in the roof.

"I can't stay here anymore... I have to leave"

Suddenly, a cold breeze sweeps through the room, extinguishing the single flickering candle by her bedside. The room plunges into darkness, and the temperature drops sharply. Gosalyn pulls her blanket tighter, eyes wide with fear.

La Llorona's Voice softly, echoing, "Gosalyn... niña..." Gosalyn sits up abruptly, heart pounding.

"La Llorona? Is that you?"

A misty figure materializes at the foot of her bed, La Llorona's sorrowful eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

The hallway outside Gosalyn's room. Mrs. Crumple walks down the darkened corridor, muttering to herself about the troublemaker she has to deal with. She hears a distant, haunting wail echoing through the halls.

"What now? Who's making that racket?"

The wail grows louder, more intense, reverberating off the walls. The air grows colder with each step she takes.

Then A gust of icy wind blasts through the corridor, knocking Mrs. Crumple off her feet. She scrambles to get up, panic setting in as she realizes she is not alone.

"Who's there? Show yourself!"

Darkwing's hideout. He's looking at news footage of the recent attack he thwarted, realizing Gosalyn's warnings were accurate.

"She was right. I've made a terrible mistake. I have to make things right" darkwing says to himself.

In Gosalyn's room. La Llorona stands beside Gosalyn, her spectral form now more defined, her expression one of determined anger.

The hallway. Mrs. Crumple stumbles to her feet, her breath visible in the cold air. Shadows move along the walls, and the wailing grows unbearably loud. Suddenly, La Llorona appears before her, her eyes burning with fury.

"What are you? Stay away from me!"

La Llorona raises her hand, and the shadows around Mrs. Crumple come to life, wrapping around her limbs, holding her in place. She struggles, but the grip tightens, making her scream in terror.

"Let me go! Please!" Ms crumple cried.

Gosayln hears Mrs. Crumple's screams echoing through the halls, fear gripping her heart. She stands at the door, hesitating.

"La Llorona, what are you doing?" Gosayln watched.

The shadows lift Mrs. Crumple into the air, her screams piercing the night. La Llorona steps closer, her face inches from Mrs. Crumple's.

A sudden explosion of force sends Mrs. Crumple crashing into a gas lamp, which topples over, igniting the curtains. Flames quickly spread through the hall, the heat intensifying.

The orphanage, now ablaze. Darkwing arrives, seeing the flames engulfing the building.

seeing the building engulfed in flames. He rushes in, calling out for Gosalyn.

"Gosalyn! Where are you?"

"Gosalyn! I'm coming!"

In Gosalyn's room. Smoke begins to fill the room, and Gosalyn coughs, trying to stay low. She gets scared and she hears Darkwing's voice faintly over the roar of the flames.

"Darkwing!"

"Gosayln!"

"DARKWING!"

He finally finds her but the building started to collapse splitting apart.

"Gosayln come on grab my hand" he reachers out for her but then....

Gosayln looks back as if someone was calling her, "gosayln what are doing come on"

But she leaves, "gosayln don't"

He jumps and he sees her looking up at someone, he ran and as some debris collapsed.

"Gosayln! I'm coming" desperately. He pushes through and He finds Gosalyn unconscious on the floor, the fire closing in around her. He grabs her and carries her out just as the building starts to collapse.

"Hold on, Gosalyn. I've got you"

Outside the orphanage. Darkwing carries Gosalyn out just as the building starts to collapse. They tumble onto the grass, gasping for air. Gosalyn loses consciousness as Darkwing holds her, tears streaming down his face.

The hospital. Drake sits by Gosalyn's bed, guilt and worry etched on his face.

"I'm so sorry, Gosalyn. I should have never sent you away"

Gosalyn stirs, her eyes opening slowly. But something is different. She stares blankly at Darkwing, not speaking.

"She's conscious, but... she seems different. We'll need to monitor her closely"

"I'll take care of her. I'm not leaving her side again"

"Gosalyn, I'm here for you. I'm going to adopt you officially. We're going to get through this together"

Gosalyn doesn't respond, her gaze unchanging. Darkwing embraces her, vowing to be the protector and father she needs, despite the eerie silence that now surrounds her.

The lakeside. La Llorona watches from the shadows as Darkwing finalizes the adoption process. Her ghostly form flickers with rage.

"He thinks he can take you from me? No. You are mine, niña. I will get you back, no matter the cost"

In that hospital room, later that night. Gosalyn lies in bed, her eyes flickering with a ghostly light. La Llorona's voice echoes faintly in the room.

Gosalyn's expression remains blank, but a single tear falls, hinting at the internal struggle within her. Darkwing watches over her, unaware of the spirit that now resides within his daughter.

[blackdevilwhitedemon]

Short OMARI fic idea (LOVED ONE COMES BACK W R O N G)

WAIT LET ME COOK!

Okay so besides that Mari lives Au fic I'm writing rn I have another Omori au fic (it's crack treated srsly so I wanna keep it to myself until I finish it) which long story short is good ending Sunny still jumps bc he thinks his friends can only start healing w/o him there and he wakes up in an OMARI AU where Sunny was in a coma. And there's a lot of different and weird shit so Sunny's way out of his head. It's clear that this is a different reality, not a different timeline.

ANYWAY HERE'S THE BRAIN ROT!!!

So, I've seen quite a few fics where Mari just comes back out of nowhere (usually her grave) and whoever she bumps into first is just hella chill w/ her being back alive after 4 years and they wanna show her off to everyone else??? Like, no shade to the fics, I just didn't find myself particularly liking thos fics and I don't think I finished any.

So I read one where good ending Sunny still jumps and wakes up in an OMARI AU. Basil found him and while he said he killed himself but he also said he went missing (on 2nd read realized Basil was half convincing himself of the latter thing) but it made me think.

I fucking love fiction where someone dies and only one or small amount know this for sure and then that person comes back but SOMETHING IS DEEPLY WRONG. Like,,,yas sign me the fuck up!!! You can do so much w/ that!!!

So this one also is good ending Sunny still jumps and wakes up in an OMARI AU but!!!! Sunny is fucking dead in that one. Our Sunny isn't meant to be here. So in the OMARI AU, Mari shoved/causes Sunny to fall down the stairs and she's weeping over his body trying to get him to wake in as she's in shook and hasn't registered his neck snapped. Hero walks in at this time and sees what's going and realizes quick that, Sunny isn't breathing, he has no pulse.

So he gets Mari to go with him into the woods and they bury him deep in the woods. Ofc she's in shock and dissociating the whole time while Hero is panicking, to parallel Sunny and Basil in the base game.

He get Mari to claim she woke up later than she was supposed to and looked around the house for her brother only to discover the backdoor was open. And that Hero even tried to help look for him. Everyone else thinks Sunny ran away while the teens know what they did and keep quite about it.

A year passes and that's when our Sunny get dumped into this world. He's all dirty and raggedy and wearing clothes he doesn't recognize. He's in the woods and makes his way back to town. Basil (ig? I just know I want one of the younger kids to find him bc they just think he went missing) finds him and is all ecstatic. Treating him and stuff and bombing him with questions. Our Sunny figures out p soon of what's up and that he's not where he should be, but doesn't reveal himself bc who the fuck will believe him? He can't just tell the truth. So he pretends he just...doesn't remember what's he's been up to for the last year. Just a missing persons who came back with no memories of what happened when they were gone. He's know he's heard about cases like that.

Sunny puts on an act of being frustrated and scared that he has this gap in his memories and that he feels like he's dead. Feels like he isn't real and that this isn't real. (Maybe some of his real feelings leaks thorough which makes it all the more convincing.)

So yadda yadda, everyone's over the moon to see he's back and the adults drop the whole 'where've you been?' and 'what happened?' just assuming xyz. Don't look a gifted horse in the mouth.

But Mari...when she sees him she loses it bc I KILLED HIM HES DEAD WE BURIED HIM WE BURIED HIM WE BURIED HIM WE BURIED HIM.

Sunny is happy to just,,,be around a Mari again and acts all clingy while Mari is trying to act normal about it but is terrified inside bc WHAT IS THIS WHO IS HE WHAT IS THIS IN FRONT OF ME IT CANT BE HIM WEBURIEDHIM.

She later come to a conclusion (this scene is why I wanna write this fic in the first place) as she's having a meltdown(?) breakdown(?) to Hero on the phone. At first she thought just maybe that this Sunny was some ghost here to haunt them, or was undead. But the supernatural isn't real so the only logic conclusion she can jump to is 'HE WAS ALIVE AND WE BURIED HIM. OH MY GOD HERO HE WAS ALIVE AND WE BURIED HIM. WE BURIED SUNNY.' She basically is convinced they were wrong about him being dead or maybe just somehow his heart restarted and WE BURIED HIM WE BURIED HIM HE WAS ALIVE AND WE BURIED HIM.

She thinks that Sunny was alive the whole time and woke up after they buried him and dug out of his own grave and the shock of all that made him forget things and just wander off. She think someone probs picked him up (he was found in unfamiliar clothes after all) and finally the shock or mental block finally dropped and he instinctively went back home and doesn't remember what happened to him during the shock state/mental block he had.

Hero on the other hand, isn't convinced that it's Sunny. He knows that happened. He's wasn't breathing, there was no pulse. He held him, he buried him.

That wasn't Sunny.

Hero think's our Sunny is a ghost here to haunt them, then maybe an undead and lastly lands on: SOMETHING IS WEARING HIS SKIN WEARING HIS FACE USING HIS VOICE THAT ISN'T SUNNY SUNNY IS DEAD I BURIED HIM IN THE WOODS LAST YEAR.

HOW DARE YOU LOOK LIKE HIM HOW DARE YOU

So for the last chapter he wants to convince Mari she's wrong. That that thing isn't Sunny. And he wants validation. So he treks into the woods to where they buried him and digs and dig and digs and dig and digs until there's blood. His blood.

And he finds it. Bones. Human bones. Fabric hidden deep in the dirt.

THAT THING WASN'T SUNNY. HE'S RIGHT HERE WHERE I BURIED HIM.

oh god

He turns to look towards town.

its in the house with mari...

OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD THAT THING'S IN THE HOUSE WITH MARI

MARI MARI MARI MARI MARI MARI MARI MARI MARI MARI MARI MARI MARI MARI MARI

Is the only thing he's think as he books it back to town.

And that's the end of the fic. It just stops there. I did say I wanted this to be a short fic. Also sorry this post is sloppy and not that cohesive like my last one but I'm writing this as I go late at night and just wanted to air out my brain rot.

I'm aiming for 5 chapters (won't be adding much filler to this) and I know for sure that it won't go to 10. Probs wanna finish it first, then post the dang thing but it's probs only gonna take me a month to write.

[lafcadiosadventures]

Madame Putiphar Readalong. Book Two, Chapter Thirteen:

featuring themes of an Extremely Romantic Nature:

-a lamentation  on France’s distancing from its Celtic heritage (while Spain an Ireland haven’t)(what good is this modernity for?)

-wounds that reopen as a response to great emotional shock (Lawrence of Arabia style)

-the judicial process as a burlesque carnival, a parade of grotesque killers being celebrated by an adoring populace licking their own blood off of the hangman’s hand.

-An inquiry on crime: what is it, who gets to define it? in any unequal society and specifically one under a colonial regime?

Hogarth's The Bench. (breaking my self-imposed rule of posting only monochromatic engravings to illustrate the chapters because atypically for me I prefered the oil painting to the print in this case)

I said last time we had seen the last of Ireland/the home as prison and I was wrong because, back we go to Cockermouth Castle!

The narrator informs us lady Cockermouth has died of shock after thinking her husband had actually murdered their daughter.

Debby is convalescing, and being handled with kid gloves. She desperately wants her mother, but is not told she has died (out of fear that she too would die of shock since she was still incredibly weak)(besides with playing with tropes, Borel imbues wounds with a proto-psychosomatic quality... there is an emotional quality to them that both responds to logic, and to an almost christian martyr imagery of wounds opening up as a sign of calamity to come (like figures of mary that weep blood, etc) or as a response to a reminder of emotional trauma)(i am sure i’m not wording this correctly, but he is elaborating an aesthetic use of wounds here, they are deeply symbolic and the way they reopen seems to be so as well)

The servants reply with evasives which make her suspicious. Some of them walk into her room wearing mourning clothes, which basically confirms her suspicions. Debby sneaks out of her room, weak as she is, goes to her mother’s room only to find it empty and dirty, clearly abandoned for a while now. So she falls to the ground, fainted. Her wounds reopen and she starts bleeding (a very striking image, it makes sense for it to happen since she’s very weak, her wounds are still not properly healed, but it’s also symbolic)(I’m reminded of the post torture scene in Lawrence of Arabia where Lawrence starts bleeding during a conversation alluding to said torture, and think Borel is working with wounds in a similar way here.)

We leave Debby and the castle for a second, to the castle’s surroundings and the villagers and peasants, who are distressed by what they think is Patrick’s death. Given Cockermouth’s history of violence, everyone assumes he murdered Patrick. The other nobles, who we are told, also hate Cockermouth, had spread what they saw at the banquet and their conjectures about what happened to the villagers. the villagers see in this story yet another layer to the cake of Cockermouth’s violence, they become emboldened, and dare to talk against him openly. Patrick’s death might be the spark needed to light up an uprising.

[Borel tells us how the people pay homage to Patrick’s blood -actually Debby’s- building a cairn  -thanks @sainteverge - marking graves through piling stones over the body- over the blood stains. These cairns can be later on confused with hills if they are covered by soil, as Borel says. Spain and Ireland, Borel tells us, still (in 1840’s) continue this practice, and although there are cairns in the Armorican regions of France, these are Celtic monuments form the ancient gauls.

(this history of Celtic customs and shared Celt origins of the countries in question, might be at the back of his mind when he compares both cultures, which he will do again later on? Is he perhaps also choosing Ireland for this novel because he wants to recall to a Celtic heritage France has distanced itself from? Among other reasons? )

In fact, when Borel talks of French vestiges now studied by “experts” there’s a touch of irony in his tone,, although under the stones usually human skeletons are found, the "learned men" studying them classify them as ancient monuments but cannot decide their purpose.... France, Borel seems to be saying, has stirred so far from its past it requires experts to study its traditions, even while having relatives in neighbouring countries still practising said traditions, that could surely shed light over those...]

So, back to the revolutionary steerings Patrick’s presumed death has provoked: Everywhere he goes, lord Cockermouth encounters clamours asking what has he done with Patrick’s body. Little kids call him lord Cain. Lord Cockermouth is very afraid and feels the urge to clear his reputation FAST or risk maybe being killed.

So, in a move typical of any person with power and connections, no matter when you read this, Lord Cockermouth decides it’s time for a little tampering with the judicial system. He forces out of his daughter the confession that Patrick lives. And through “insidious practices”  he fabricates a court case accusing Patrick of being a seducer and a would be killer.

And what follows is something French Romanticism does so well: an enquiry of what constitutes a crime in modern society (noted examples, Vautrin’s many rants in Père Goriot, Nerval’s Hand of Glory, some passages in Champavert) what is a crime, what gets penalized as a crime, which members of a society get labelled as criminals? Balzac and Nerval go for poverty, people who have to steal out of need/starvation, while white collar crimes committed on a daily basis by bankers and aristocrats-and merchants, adds Nerval- not only go unpunished, they are not even called that. Borel offers another example: revolutionaries. Irishmen resisting the English invader and fighting back? Tried as criminals. I’ll let Borel do the talking:

“The task awaiting these magistrates was quite honorable: in addition to Patrick’s case, they had to deal with half a dozen homicides, and a good dozen thieves: these wonderful Irish murderers were nothing more, poor men, than good papist peasants who had had the monstrousness to retaliate against their English tenants’ beatings, and these distinguished larcenists, only unfortunate families, plunged into misery by the last confiscations, and who, pushed by hunger and cold, had stolen a few baskets of peat and a few bushels of potatoes.” (translation by @sainteverge here )

These are speedy trials, where the accused are doomed before the process is even started.

Borel makes a caricature out of the Magistrates Debby sees from the window of her hotel, a carnivalesque parade of assassins, dresses in pink, wearing massive poweded wigs...

To complete the carnival quality of the scene, we get a description of the people dressed in their Sunday best to attend the trials (there have been many associations made between the judicial process and the theatrical, see for instance foucault calling the administration of public punishments the abominable theatre, see, expositions of forcats, vidocq’s description of women attending trials as a thrilling kind of morbid spectacle -why vidocq singles out women as the only ones seeking perversely erotic thrills in the courthouse is a question for another time :P)

The judges are not even disguising who they answer to, they smile and bow to Lord Cockermouth as they see him wave at them from the hotel window. (they dined and drank together every night, because they shared their symbolic-in-borel’s-world gluttony)

“The whole town, kind eyed and smiling, was as animated as on a holiday, and the streets, in their Sunday best, were full of white élégantes, of blue bourgeois and of red soldiers. The duration of sessions, by the great turnout civil and criminal cases occasion, is a time of carnival and rejoicing in small towns.”

(The colors make the ones of the union jack, but i don’t know if there’s any further symbolism to them)

Also, sorry for citing so much but this is good and i must:

“The people’s gaiety, generated by the sole presence of men come to decimate them, did not devastate Deborah any less. The crowd demands entertainment; anything that serves as entertainment is considered good: priests, soldiers, mountebanks, judges, kings and executioners.”

The people’s gaiety generated by the presence of those who had come to decimate them!!?!? standing ovation. The people at the parade, having fun at the expense of others who are about to die or be imprisoned, because they choose to challenge the colonial authorities instead of living quietly in their personal comfort??? wow.

Plus the comparison of the personages providing the entertainment, most of them harmful to the people cheering on them, or with the potential to be harmful.

We finally get to the trial itself: Cockermouth just proclaims a bunch of lies about Patrick being a seducer who later attempted to murder his daughter and fled to France after stealing her jewels. bought witnesses back up his claims, employing their consciences only in earning their bribes.

When Debbie is called to testify, she is in the delicate position of protecting Patrick without outing his father as a liar (possibly out of fear)

Since dinner was nigh, the judges rapidly condemn Patrick on all charges, disregarding Deborah’s statement or her cries claiming his innocence.

And not only has Deborah had to suffer the whole fixed trial situation, but on top of that her charming father invites her and the judges to a celebratory banquet. She rebels and stays in her room, forced to hear her lover’s henchmen and tormentors’ laughter and their bas lieux joys.

Poor Debbie descends the next morning to find the vestiges of the orgy, drunken judges amok, her naked father passed out on the ground...

She flees to the docks of Tralee to find the next ship for France. Patrick is hanged in ephigy.

[annaphoenix1994]

Ch.104 - Sometimes, Death is a Kindness

Previous Chapter - Masterlist - Next Chapter

Kiera finds out about her father's passing.

Later the same evening, Simon returned home with a frown decorating his face after accompanying Eva into town to confirm funeral arrangements for her husband and spending a few hours with her once he brought her back to the lodge before dismissing himself for the night, ensuring her that he would bring Kiera back after he broke the news to her. 

His plan was distorted when he realized that he walked in to Kiera making dinner with a smile on her face once she realized that he was home. A smile I haven't seen in a few weeks and I'm about to take it away by telling her this unfortunate news, he frowned to himself, forcing himself to smile at her as he was truly happy to see her after four days. "What're you up to, love?" 

"I figured you'd like supper after going without it for the past four days," She giggled, closing the gap between them as she greeted him with a longed-for kiss, her brows immediately furrowing once she realized that he didn't feel too eager to kiss her back. I-Is he not happy to see me? 

She pulled away, watching his eyes dart along her facial features to avoid looking her in the eyes. "Simon? What's wrong?"

He sighed, looking down at his feet before his hands reached up to grasp hers, bringing her arms down from his shoulders and clutching her hands against his chest, "I shouldn't tell you this alone-"

"...Tell me what?" She questioned, her eyes staring into his, her gut twisting when she saw him purposely break eye contact, which wasn't like him. 

At all. 

"Just... I'll go get the kids. We need to go to the lodge." 

"Why?" 

"Love, please," He sighed, not wanting to get a stern tone with her, knowing that a stern tone of voice was the last thing Kiera would need, even if it was for her own good. "Just turn the stove off and put Kimber up, I'll go get the kids. We need to go to the lodge." 

She looked at her hands that were held securely by Simon's against his chest, feeling his heartrate increase slightly. Something is wrong. "Wh-?"

"Just trust me, love. Okay?" 

She nodded hesitantly, closing her eyes when he pressed a reassuring and comforting kiss to her forehead, reassuring her that what he needed to tell her was not bad news about them as a couple, although a part of him thought that telling her there was a problem between them would be easier than telling her that her own father had passed away. For once I wish we had a problem. It would probably break her heart less, he frowned, desperately dreading when he'd hear that broken weep of sorrow leave her throat just like he had heard Eva do when he told her. 

Once he had gathered Jacob and Evie, he had instructed Baler to carry the twin's overnight bag to prevent Kiera from having to carry anything. Simon opened the front door to the lodge for her, letting her enter first with Evie clutched to her hip while he held Jacob close against his chest. "Baler, take that bag upstairs. I'll meet you there," Simon directed. "Love, hand her to me." 

His heart broke when he continued to watch her be oblivious to the situation, hating himself for just not coming out and telling her the horrible news, wanting her mother to be the one to tell her or for her to figure it out. I feel so bloody selfish for not wanting to tell her to avoid breaking my own heart after watching hers break again. 

"Simon, what's going on?" She asked with a soft voice of concern.

"Your mum is in the den, love," He frowned, avoiding eye contact with her before he and Baler ascended the stairs. "I'll be there when the time is right." 

"When what time is right?!" She questioned, her tone holding slight irritation. 

"This isn't the place for me right now. Your mum needs you, not us. Not yet." 

She frowned when she watched him take their children upstairs, Baler following close behind with Jacob and Evie's overnight bag along with his own, a frown matching both his and Simon's face. 

With hesitant steps, Kiera made her way into the den, looking around slowly before her eyes fell onto her mother, who was laying on her side across the couch with a stuffed animal that had been in Kiera's childhood. 

It was an old stuffed dog her father had when he was a child - a dog he had named Two Pound when he was four years old. The name never made sense to Kiera when she was growing up, even now, but she never once changed his name when the stuffed animal was leant to her as she grew up. 

With this, Kiera knew something was wrong when she saw Two Pound clutched within her mother's arms. "Momma?" 

"Kiera, sweetheart," Eva sniffled, her eyes puffy and red from consecutively crying since Simon had informed her of Bud's passing. "Come here." 

Hastily, she rushed to her mother's side, sitting on her knees in front of the couch where her mother lay. "What's wrong, momma? Why're you holding Two Pound? Where's dad?" 

Eva's face scrunched before shedding fresh tears, "Your daddy's in Heaven, sweetheart." 

"W-What? What happened?!" She asked frantically, her face falling into shock before tears of her own began to fill her eyes. "What?" 

"He passed away in his sleep on the last night of the cattle drive," Eva whimpered, opening her left arm to bring Kiera close to her, crying harder when she felt Kiera bury her face into her shoulder. "Your father didn't want the cancer to beat him in the hospital."

"Cancer? H-How come you or dad never told me?" 

"He didn't want you to worry, sweetheart. He didn't want to watch your heart break by worrying about his health." 

"W-What kind of cancer?" She sniffled. 

"Bone cancer, honey." 

Without another word, Kiera subtly nodded before accepting the news, no matter how much she wanted to refuse to. 

She and her mother wept in silence in each other's arms. 

Four hours later, Simon noticed that the weeping between Kiera and Eva fell silent. Looking over, he saw that Baler had fallen asleep on the sofa that was in the guest room meant for him and Kiera. This house is huge, he thought, recalling the land deed that Bud had given him. Too big for just Eva to encounter on her own. 

He stood slowly to his feet, wondering how he should bring up comforting Kiera once he saw her. Checking to ensure that Jacob and Evie were sleeping soundly after he had given them a bottle two hours prior, he then moved to the couch to wake up Baler. "What?" He grumbled. 

"I'm going to go check on your mum. Keep an eye on the children." 

"Okay." 

"Sit up and open your eyes. I need to be sure you're not going to fall back to sleep." 

Baler sighed, forcing himself to stand up in front of him, "What do I do if one starts crying?" 

"Offer them a bottle or a pacifier, but do not pick them up." 

"Why? Afraid I'll drop 'em?" 

Simon arched his brow, "If you do, there'll be two funerals to attend to this week." 

"Cold." 

With a scoff, Simon proceeded to descend the stairs, hesitantly walking towards the den, walking in to see Eva had fallen asleep, the skin around her eyes glistening with wept tears from the nearby lamp. With a frown, he grasped the folded blanket that draped over the back of the couch, unfolding it before laying it over Eva's sleeping form. "Bud?" She murmured, her eyes still shut, Simon unaware that the simple and kind gesture Simon was doing was one Bud did all the time when he'd walk in on Eva sleeping somewhere other than their bed. 

"Where's Kiera?" He replied, not wanting to correct her and remind her that Bud was gone. 

Eva hummed, "She's upset. She's on the roof looking up at the stars, just like you used to do." 

He nodded, "Thank you. Go back to sleep." 

"Okay, honey. Love you." 

There goes my heart breaking again, Simon frowned to himself, desperately not wanting to wake her up and tell her that her reality had come to a screeching halt. He chose not to reply, knowing that Eva wouldn't remember the conversation in the morning. Instead, he reached over to turn off the lamp before beginning his task of finding Kiera. How'd the lass even get up on the roof of this bloody huge house?

He had ended up walking the perimeter of the house twice before spotting a decorative ladder that led straight to the roof. Once there, he followed the strong smell of a cigarette followed by a secondary hint of whiskey. 

And there she sat, on the highest point of the roof as well as the flattest, a cigarette in hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other, a thin blanket draped around her shoulders, the red of the fabric highlighting her bloodshot eyes. 

He was hoping she would look at him when he approached, but she didn't. She continued to stare out into the distance as if she were watching something that held her interest. "Where did you get those, love?" He asked softly as he took a seat next to her, hesitantly reaching out to take the cigarette from between her fingers. 

"They were dad's. Might as well put them to use," She replied, her voice hoarse, jerking her hand away from him to keep him from taking it from her. "I don't need to hear a lecture from you right now. I'll take it later." 

"I'm not here to give you one, love," He sighed before looking down at the opened pack of cigarettes that lay next to her. "Although I just might have to give you a good one if you've already smoked ten out of the twenty that come in a box." 

"Yeah?" She scoffed, bringing the cigarette back up to her lips to take another drag. "It's unfortunate I couldn't find my vape so I unfortunately found these. You gonna add on to that lecture once you find out this isn't my first bottle of whiskey?" 

She was angry - not angry that her father had died, although his death was a large portion as to why, but she was angry that she hadn't known about his bone cancer, blaming herself for not being more involved in her father's health once he got older. 

Simon huffed, "Well, in that case, let me help you finish the other bottle." 

He watched as she rolled her eyes, hesitantly reaching the bottle of whiskey towards him and watching him drink it straight from the bottle, groaning after welcoming the warm sensation of the burn the whiskey left in his throat. "You can have the rest. Shit is too strong for me." She scoffed. 

"I won't need the rest, love. How long have you been up here?" 

"Longer than I should've. I gambled it wouldn't rain tonight like it has been, so I guess I'm taking advantage of it." 

"Your father said the same thing last night." He spoke lowly, frowning as he watched her face scrunch into a sob. His intention was to not remind her of her father's passing, but to make an attempt to help remind her that she was an exact image of her father, hoping to help ease her grieving. 

"Why? Why didn't he tell any of us that he had bone cancer?" She questioned. 

"I don't know, love, but I know that he loved you too much to see your heart break over his health." 

"No, he didn't. He was too fucking stubborn-"

He frowned, taking the cigarette from her hand and putting it out before wrapping his arm around her shoulders, gently pulling her into him and cupping her face with his free hand, letting her cling onto him as she cried. 

Slowly, he laid back against the roof, her head on his chest as she cried into him. He listened as the bottle of whiskey rolled off of the roof, shattering on the ground below while his free hand continued to cup her cheek, his thumb gently caressing against her tear-soaked skin. "He was stubborn, yes, but he was because he loved you. He didn't want you to see him in pain-"

"Did he tell you?" 

"No." He exhaled deeply. 

"Would you have told me if he did?" 

"Yes." 

Kiera sobbed between the silence. 

"Sometimes, death can be a kindness. I know he was in a lot of pain, but he hid it bloody well." 

"I don't see how death can be a kindness." 

"If I was in that much pain, I would've welcomed it. His passing was where he would've wanted it to be." He replied softly, his cheek pressed against her forehead, thankful that her sobs were not as violent. 

She shook her head against his chest, "I guess you're right." 

"It'll be alright, love. He wouldn't want to see you like this - grieving this hard over him-"

"But he has to understand that we'll all grieve over losing him, Simon!" 

"He knows."

[the-boy-who-waited]

Pond Investigations

takes place shortly after the Angels Take Manhattan (so spoilers for that episode)

note: this is a long shot but genuinely if anyone wants to do fanart for this i will love you forever

Cyborgs in Manhattan

Prologue

Things have been happening here since we created the paradox. Manhattan feels like its own little world now, almost closed off from the rest of the Earth, except Rory and I are the only ones who can’t leave. But that’s okay, I think. We’ve created a life here together. I’m a publisher and writer, he’s a doctor, things are good. But like I said, it's still hectic. The angels are gone for now, but other stuff has been going wrong. People going missing, sightings of strange creatures roaming the city, that stuff. And luckily, Rory and I have some experience with this sort of thing. You’re welcome, Manhattan.

“I’ve missed this. Haven’t you missed this?” I ask, glancing up from the manuscript lying limply in my hands.

“Sorry, missed what?” Rory groans, sitting up next to me. The bed creaks as he leans over to turn on his bedside light.

“This, the adventure,” I reply smoothly, taking off my reading glasses to look at him. “Or the anticipation of adventure, more like.”

“Mm, yeah. I guess. Glad we have a more normal life, though. Settling down a bit.”

“You call this normal?” I laugh, gesturing to the room around us. “We were sent back in time to 1938 New York by weeping angels, we can’t leave, and people are going missing!”

“Oh, you know what I mean,” he scoffs in response. “Not going on crazy adventures for weeks on end, you know?”

“Look me in the eyes and tell me you really don’t miss that, though. Come on, it’s exciting!” He gives me a weary but longing look. I sigh.

“Okay, yes, I’ve felt a bit empty without all that going on,” he chuckles.

“Exactly! Thank you! So you agree now that we have to figure out what exactly is happening?”

“Are we really the only ones who can?” Rory asks tentatively. I give him a sly smile and place a hand on his shoulder.

“Yes,” I say without hesitation. He sighs and rolls his head, but a grin plays at his lips.

“So then tell me, Mrs. Williams, how are we going to solve these mysteries all on our own?”

“We won’t be completely on our own, my dear Mr. Pond.” I hold up the cover of the manuscript I’m proofreading. “We have-”

“Melody Malone…”

--------

Chapter 1

Over the past few days, we’ve been silently taking notes on all the disappearances happening around us. So far, we have:

Some victims have been disappearing and popping up a few weeks later, looking exactly the same as they did when they went missing

Many who came back do not remember anything about the time between their disappearance and their reappearance

People have been reporting sightings of small robotic shape-changers. We haven’t seen any yet, nor have we ever heard of them

Most of the people who went missing have not yet reappeared, and traces of them seem to be slowly disappearing as well (memories, objects, sometimes entire houses)

I’m surprised we haven’t come across any of the robots ourselves yet, considering our repertoire with aliens. But our eyes are peeled. The moment we see one of those little buggers, our work begins. And I have a feeling that said work will be cut out for us.

--

“Amy?” Rory calls my name from down the hall.

“Yeah?” I pipe back.

“I think… I think you might want to come look at this…” he says, his tone a bit unsure.

“What is it?” I ask as I make my way down the hall.

“Be slow. Don’t want to spook it,” he replies, now whispering.

“Rory, what is i-” I stop just as I’m rounding the corner. A small metallic bird, about the size of a standard adult human head sits very close to Rory’s feet. “Oh.”

“Is it- It’s not one of the robots people have been talking about, is it?”

“I don’t know!” I exclaim in a hushed voice. “I mean, probably, what else would it be? Not like robots are a common occurrence here, yeah?” I crouch down closer to its level and slowly move towards it.

“D’you think that’s the best idea?” Rory whispers.

“Got a better one?”

“Yes, actually! Multiple! We don’t know what this thing is, or does, or-” Before he can finish his sentence, nearly at the speed of light, the robot changes into a hand, a needle shoots out of one of the fingers, and barely in a heartbeat, I am gone.

--

I don’t know where I am. I can’t see. Are my eyes closed or am I blind? Ohh, I really hope it’s the former. I groan and try to sit up, but I’m held down by something. Clamps?

“I told you the human would try to escape,” an exasperated, raspy voice scolds from beside me. I jump.

“I never disagreed with you!” another voice says from the other side. It sounds offended.

“Will you stop bickering and let me out?” I grumble.

Silence from both of them, then they begin hastily whispering.

“She’s not supposed to do that, is she? Why can she talk?”

“I don’t know! I made sure to put that in the medicine, I don’t know why it didn’t work.”

I clear my throat. “Yeah, hi, I can hear you. At least let me see, will you?” No reply.

“I mean, she can be allowed to see, right?” the mellow voice finally whispers.

“Yeah, if you want to risk getting killed, sure.”

“I’m not going to kill you, calm down. Not if you do what I ask,” I mumble.

“Is that a threat? Might not be the best choice in this situation, dear.”

“Give me back my vision and I won’t move a muscle,” I bargain.

I hear a grunt next to me, and angry muttering.

“Better not be lying, human,” the angry voice growls. There’s rustling beside my ear, then light enters my eyes. One overhead light, kind of dim, shines on me. Peering down are two blank faced individuals, both of their skin a musky gray. Their eyes are too cold for them to be fully living creatures. Cyborgs? Probably. Most of their bodies are encased in shiny silver armour, except for their joints, similar to medieval knight’s armour. There’s foreign writing on both of their shoulders. Entirely unrecognizable, clearly an alien language. I squint at it, forcing the blur away. The characters slowly morph into something more readable. Lucky me, the translation effects of the Tardis still work. The writing on the tags read ‘Burol’ - the angry one to my right - and ‘Oscan’ - the mellow one to my left. Based on their dressing, they seem to be warriors.

I clear my throat. “Thank you. Now, what are you?”

“We are the Strox, Miss Pond.”

“Oi, Mrs. Pond to you, wire-brains. What do you want with me? And… how do you know my name?”

“We receive data from each human we collect. But why should we tell you what we want? That wouldn’t be very smart now, would it?”

“No, I suppose it wouldn’t, Burol,” I say, smiling.

“You understand Strox?” he asks indignantly.

I pause. Which would get me more likely to get information out of them? The truth - I spent a long time in a Tardis with the last remaining Time Lord - or a very blatant lie - yes, I can read Strox? I shake my head.

“Yeah, I can. Well versed in alien languages, as a matter of fact.” The lie seemed better. Knowing the Doctor’s reputation with getting all creatures everywhere to hate him, this seems like a better bet at avoiding death.

“Hm. Impressive,” Oscan ponders. “And where did you gain this knowledge?”

“I… traveled a lot. Learned a lot of different languages. Had to, you know?”

Burol pulls his comrade aside and they begin harshly whispering. I don’t know if they know I can still hear them.

“She could be useful. What if we kept part of her essence for later? Not an entire vessel, she’d still have her values, but all morals and human decency would be gone, yeah?”

“That,” Oscan replies after a moment, a smirk audible in his voice. “Is brilliant. But how would we do it?”

“Just a moment.” They walk back over and Burol picks up a syringe.

“Wait, wait, what are you doing? Hold on-” I gasp, struggling to break free from my restraints.

“Simply going to put you under, dear Pond. You won’t feel a thing,” he explains, stone cold.

“No, why, what do you want?” I prattle. But he simply ignores me. I don’t have much time until it’s prepared. I need to do something, anything, now. I frantically dig around in my pocket as stealthily as I can, looking for something, anything I can use. My fingers graze a pen, ballpoint.

“Hurry up! Now, do it now!” Oscan yelps. “Before she escapes!”

Panicking, I force my hand through the cuff and jab Burol with the pen in a vulnerable spot on his elbow, catching the syringe as it falls out of his hands. He stumbles back, more surprised than hurt. Syringe still in hand, I attempt to force open the other cuff to no avail. I’ll need to put something together when I get home. I grit my teeth. I better get home.

“Let me out,” I order, holding my weapon pointing directly at Oscan. “I’ll have you know, I am very good at darts.”

Unsure of what else to do, he nods and releases me via a control panel tucked away into a small corner of the metallic room. I give a sigh of relief and defensively swing off the bed, glaring daggers at the Strox. But my anger quickly dissipates and morphs into fear and… sadness. Ahead of me are dozens of beds similar to mine, with motionless bodies lying atop them.

“Are they… dead?” I ask hesitantly, walking slowly towards them.

I turn to face the Strox. Burol grunts, holding his elbow. Strox flesh is very vulnerable, noted.

“What use would dead humans be to us? We’re not disgusting, we don’t leave corpses down here strapped down to beds as if they’ll come alive,” he growls mockingly.

“I beg to differ. You are pretty disgusting. Are you experimenting on them?” I ask. No response. Of course they are. They themselves are cyborgs. Light shines off metal on the bodies, bouncing around the cavernous room. No, not experimenting - changing them, modifying them. Making them into warriors just as they are. Is there a war? No…

“You were talking about my essence and using me as a vessel. What does that mean?” I demand.

“Look around you, Ms. Pond, what do you think?”

Motionless bodies being turned into cyborgs. ‘Essence’. ‘Vessels’. I groan.

“You’re creating an army,” I reply simply. “And you’re using human bodies as your soldiers. And… you want me as one of them.”

Oscan chuckles. “Smart girl. You were right,” he says to Burol. “She could be a very valuable asset.”

“Not a goddamn chance,” I snap back.

“Feisty one, eh?” Oscan laughs. “Admirable of you to think you really can do anything to keep yourself - or any of these humans - safe. Don’t understand what you think you can do.”

“Oh, you will,” I laugh.

“And why is that?”

“I know why you’re here. Why you started here instead of anywhere else on Earth. The paradox, yeah? Well, guess who created it!” I point to myself. “Might just be a human, but I am one hell of a woman.”

“Ahhh, I see.” Oscan grins, satisfaction on his cold face. “Just another reason why we could use you,” he purrs.

“And a reason why you won’t. I am getting out of here and if either of you try to stop me, I will use these.” I brandish the syringe in one hand and pen in the other, reminding them of what I have.

“Either of us, sure, but what about the rest of them?”

I freeze, and slowly turn around. The people that were once lying down are now standing, the same blank expressions on their faces as the Strox. Each of them are in various states of disarray, some barely even human at this point. Home feels a little further away right now.

--------

Chapter 2

“Amy! No!” Rory cries out, grasping at the air as his wife disappears in front of him. “Not again, come on… Why take her? You were so close to me, so why her?” He smacks his hand on the cold wooden floor, exhaling angrily. “I am not letting this happen. I’m coming for you, Amy, I promise.”

Rory stands up shakily and runs his fingers through his hair.

“What do I do? God, what do I do?” he mutters frantically. His boots clunk on the floor as he paces back and forth, then stop suddenly, almost stumbling backwards with the force of his realization. He rushes to his room, tearing the sheets off the bed, rifling through each and every drawer.

“There, yes, thank God,” he pants, yanking out Amy’s manuscript from beneath a pile of papers. “Please have a number written on here…” He flips to the last page, unconsciously crossing his fingers. A number is written on it, scrawled in black marker.

“Okay, okay…” he mumbles, rushing back to the living room, manuscript in hand, and dials the number. “Please pick up, River, please…”

--

Melody Malone sits in her dimly lit office, comfortably awaiting a phone call. Her silvery stilettos rest on the desk in front of her as she leans back in her chair, skimming a newspaper. An unlit cigarette hangs limply from her lower lip - she prefers not to smoke, but she does like the aesthetic of it. Especially in the mid 20th century, when everyone smokes. She taps her nails on the desk, swinging her legs down, just as the phone rings.

“Angel Detective Agency,” she answers.

“Melody- River- Melody,” the voice on the other end practically yells into the speaker.

“River, yes,” she replies coolly.

“This is, uh, Rory, sorry, hi. Amy’s gone missing, you know those robot… things? We found one today, in our house, and it took her and I don’t know where-”

“Yes, I know,” River chuckles, fiddling with a cuff on her wrist.

“Well then I need you to come over and help me get her back, and preferably fix this once and for all- hello?” Light flashes in the office, and River is gone, leaving the phone barely hung up.

--

“Did she just- hang up on me?” Rory asks himself, more confused than anything.

“Well, yes and no,” River’s voice rings out through the door. Without a word, Rory opens it, a look of astonishment overtaking his face.

“Vortex manipulator. You may not be able to time travel or space travel, but I can. Easy,” she explains. “Now, what do you suggest we do?”

“Probably… find another of those robots, yeah? Let ourselves be taken and find our way back with Amy, while also defeating whatever’s doing this, or something.”

“Exactly what I was thinking. As a matter of fact, I have one with me. I temporarily shut it down, but that can be fixed.” She reaches into the pocket of her trench coat and pulls out a sonic screwdriver.

“Did the Doctor give you that?” Rory asks as she works on restoring the robot.

“He will. It should work now. Let it prick you, it’ll do everything else on its own from there.”

Rory shudders. “Have you been studying these?”

“Just this one. Only one I could get my hands on and control without getting taken myself. It should activate any minute now, get ready.”

Exactly as she predicts, it transforms into a hand, just what it did for Amy, and shoots them both with needles. They disappear with a flash, and the house is empty.

--------

Chapter 3

“Stay back!” I yell, wielding my only protection at arm’s length.

“Or what?” Burol replies, grinning as much as an emotionless face can.

“Yes, or what?” the emptied people repeat, all in unison. A hivemind. That’s not creepy at all.

“Or…” I clear my throat. “Or I will attack!”

“And what good that will do, right, Amelia?” A shiver runs up my spine.

“Don’t… call me that,” I order.

“Ooh, hit a nerve there, mm? Is that not your name?” Oscan asks softly.

“Not anymore. Not to you,” I growl, hiding my fear behind a brutal wall of anger. But they’re moving closer and I am surrounded. There is no possible way that I can escape. Mass of cyborgs on all sides of me, except behind. Which is backed up by a thick metal wall. Or a door. God, please be a door.

Before I can check, a robotic voice comes over the intercom.

“New life forms detected. Dissertation: Human. Please stand by, collection will begin shortly.” Momentarily, all the cyborgs stop and stare at the Strox.

“AMY!” a voice yells from the other side of the wall. Rory. Oh thank God.

“Do not let them open the door,” Burol snarls at Oscan. He nods.

“Shouldn’t have let me know that this is a door,” I chuckle. “RORY! OPEN THE DOOR!”

“Do NOT let them open it!” Burol yells again, louder.

“ON IT!” With a shriek, it slides open behind me.

“See you on the other side, suckers!” I yell triumphantly, falling backwards into the next room. The doors close automatically, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Amy! You’re okay, oh my God, you’re okay,” Rory says, his body relaxing a bit more when he sees me. He helps me up and I pull him into a quick kiss.

“Ohhh, I missed you,” I mumble, holding him as tight as he’s holding me. High heels clack from behind him and I peer over his shoulder.

“Hello, River,” I gasp. Now is not the time for smiling, but I can’t help it.

“Very glad you’re safe.” I break away from Rory to give her a warm hug.

“So am I.” I give her a kiss on the cheek and turn to face the door.

“What… are those things, exactly?” Rory asks abruptly.

“Strox,” River and I say in unison.

“You’ve heard of them?” I ask her.

“Briefly. Heard their name spread around the galaxy, used to hear stories about them. Used to be an incentive to keep kids good - ‘if you’re not good, the Strox will come and conquer!’” she quotes.

“Well, what do they do? What do they want?” Rory questions.

“From what I could gauge, they want to colonize Earth. I’m assuming they feed on paradox energy or use it as some other source of strength - and we all know this city is full of it. They’re cyborgs trying to turn other people into cyborgs. And taking out all human essence to… empty the bodies for good use.”

“Empty the bodies… what does that mean?” Rory inquires.

“Well, I think by ‘essence’, they mean the soul. They mentioned doing it to me but only removing my morality. So essentially, to have the perfect warrior, they take out the soul and leave the body empty for something new to put in.”

“Like daleks or cybermen,” River interjects.

“How much time do you reckon we have?” Rory mutters, leaning back against a wall.

“Well, judging by the noise they’re making out there,” River raises her eyebrows. “I’d say about ten minutes.” She turns to me. “Estimate of how many there are?”

A pained expression takes over my face. “More than 20. All in varying states of robot.”

Rory groans and puts his head in his hands. A visible chill runs up River’s spine.

“Okay. Okay, well, what do we do? How do we- how do we stop them?” Rory rambles.

“I… have no idea. But we must do something, right? We’ve seen our future, we live after this, so we don’t die here or now. And if we don’t die now, that means no one else does, right?”

“But time can be rewritten,” he mumbles.

“Only if we want it to be. So come on, think!” I rub my temples, pacing back and forth, ignoring the pulsing pain in my hand. “We can’t use time travel, I doubt we can fight them by hand, so what else can we do? What other options do we have?” I mumble.

“Well… I have a sonic screwdriver. Probably should have mentioned that earlier,” River chimes in, holding up her sonic.

“Do you think it could disable the technology of the Strox?”

“Not for very long, but yes.”

“Perfect. I have a plan,” I say, grinning.

--------

Chapter 4

“When the door sounds like it’s about to burst down, get ready. River, you sonic the two Strox, it’s a hivemind so I think they control the people. Rory, you come with me to the control panel and keep an eye on all of them. Finding out how to shut everything down shouldn’t take too long, if I press enough buttons it’ll probably ruin the system. Let me know if they start waking up. If they do, we run. If they don’t and I get the systems scrambled in time, we can probably take control of the mechanics and therefore the Strox, and get them to return all souls back to the people down here.” I pause, and take a deep breath. “If that’s even possible.”

River and Rory nod. The banging on the door grows louder, then stops altogether. Eyes wide, my gaze meets Rory and River’s.

“What are they do-” River begins, rudely interrupted by the metal melting rapidly into a puddle on the floor, hardening just as quickly. “Ah. Will this still work?”

“Well,” I chuckle nervously. “We better damn well hope so. Go!”

River sprints towards the Strox, sonic screwdriver held at arm’s length, at full power. As she nears the Strox, the cyborgs all shut down at once, twitching.

“Yes! Oh, I am so glad that worked,” I laugh. “Okay, Rory, with me.” He nods, and I grab his hand, pulling him along. We shove through the mob of cyborgs to the control panel and stand back to back. “Alright, how does this thing work?” I mutter. “Really wish there were big red buttons on things…” I take a deep breath and begin pressing buttons, completely at random.

“You’re sure this will work?” Rory mutters.

“First thing I learned from the Doctor: always press buttons. Something’s bound to happen.”

“Amy, they’re waking up,” Rory whispers shakily.

“No, no, no, not yet, please…” I mumble. I smack the side of the console and groan. “Hold on- there’s a button down here.” I run my fingers along the edge of it and clench my fists before furiously pressing it. All at once, everything shuts down - the cyborgs stop once again, the internal locks click open, lights turn off. It seems like, out of all the technology here, the Strox are the only ones still functioning.

“No! What have you done?” Burol yells.

“Stopped you little buggers, that’s what we’ve done,” I reply. “Now, you’re going to tell me how to restore these people, if it’s even possible.”

Burol sighs. “If we return their souls to them, there is a chance that they will die. And do you really want that, Amelia Pond?”

“Well, what’s the other chance?”

“The robotic parts will cease to function and their organic bodies will be restored. But it is a much smaller chance.”

“I’ll take it. Better than letting them just die without even trying to do anything. So do it.”

Burol cocks his head at us questioningly, as if to challenge us. River clears her throat and brandishes her sonic screwdriver. It glistens in the light. He meets her eyes for a moment, then surrenders.

“Come with us.”

“Good. But you are going to be very closely monitored, got that?” I warn.

We set off, both of the Strox closely tailed by River and Rory.

We come to a door at the end of a long hallway, and it opens seemingly on its own.

“In here. Keep them in bottles,” Oscan introduces.

“How do we get them to their rightful places?”

“They’ll know where to go. But remember, if they all die, it will be your fault.”

I scoff. “Life is full of hard decisions, this is just one of the harder ones. I know what I’m doing, now shut it.”

I gingerly pick one of the bottles up and examine it. It’s tightly sealed with a cork. Slowly, I open it, and a blue mist seeps out, making a beeline down the corridor and back to the cyborgs.

“If this works, you two leave. I know you have some kind of technology in you. Cyborgs usually do,” I growl at the two Strox. They nod.

I make sure Rory and River still have the Strox trapped with the syringe and screwdriver, then chase after the light, just in time to see it enter the body of one young man. A glow emanates from under his skin, and he straightens up with a loud gasp, then collapses.

“Don’t die, please don’t die,” I whisper, rushing over to him. Slowly, the metal unattaches itself from his skin, and his body repairs itself in the places that it was modified. I lower my head to listen. He’s breathing. Oh thank God, he’s breathing. I let out a sigh of relief and stand up.

“It worked!” I call out. “It worked… release the rest of them!”

The first sound that reaches my ears is a loud zap - the Strox leaving. Then the distant sound of corks popping out of bottles. I smile. Did we just… save Manhattan? No, don’t get ahead of yourself, Amy. We still have to make sure the rest of them are okay. Blue light streams in, illuminating the dark room with a soft glow, and gradually, all of the cyborgs regain their humanity. The last cork pops as the last bottle is opened, and Rory and River run in, now on their own. I look behind me and meet their eyes with a soft, triumphant smile.

“It’s… beautiful,” River whispers.

“It’s life,” I reply. “I suppose that is beautiful. Did you know that this is what life looks like?”

River walks up in front of me, staring wistfully at the light. “Yes. 200 years, I’ve had the chance to see life itself, yet it never fails to amaze me. You can hear them. Their souls, their essence, their… hope. Each and every individual.” She pauses. “The first time I saw it was with the Doctor. In a situation similar to this, I think. He was astounded, as was I. 2000 years, and yet it never failed to amaze him as it did the first time. He’s funny like that, you know. Sees every experience as something new and beautiful, even if he’s seen it a hundred, a thousand times,” she continues.

Slowly, the last of the light reenters the last of the bodies, and she turns to face us. I look down at the ground and sniffle. Am I crying? A lone tear rolls down my cheek, and I wipe it off. I suppose I am. Was. I clear my throat and turn away, not letting River see.

“Well. We need to get back up. River, can you scan for an internal teleport?”

“Yes.” She switches on the sonic and scans the room. “That lever, I believe, turns it on. If I can modify it, it should take everyone back to where they need to be - namely, these people.”

River walks up to the control panel and briefly studies the lever, then sonics it.

“Ready?” I ask.

Rory and River nod, and I pull the lever.

It’s dark out now, which is probably best, considering we just appeared out of nowhere.

“We ought to go. New Yorkers may never sleep, but I’ll be damned if they’re not diligent,” River mentions.

“You can come back to our place, if you like. Relax a bit,” Rory offers. I nod.

“Thank you, but I must be going. Places to be, men to see.”

I laugh quietly. “Tell him we say hi,” I whisper. “Thank you for helping us. Don’t be a stranger.”

She gives each of us a quick hug, then flicks a switch on her Vortex manipulator and disappears. I sigh and grab Rory’s hand, holding it in a firm grip. We walk under the dim streetlamps towards our apartment complex quietly. It’s not so bad being stuck here, not with him. He makes it all better.

-

-

taglist (ask to be added): @riddlersboyfriend @totallyeuphoric

[the--morning--room]

RESURGAM (Arthur Harrow x F!Reader) Chapter 8: Your station is in my heart

"'I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh—it is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God's feet, equal—as we are!" -Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15

AO3

As you may be aware, reader, in the tradition of human storytelling, warnings often come in threes. And too often, these warnings fall on deaf ears until it is too late. Consider, for example, the tragic case of one of my own former avatars. He was one of my best avatars—I daresay my favorite avatar of them all—until the fateful day of his defeat. The warnings he received could not have been clearer, in my opinion: First, an uncharacteristically spooked horse weeping tears of blood, then a cup of wine similarly turned to blood, and finally, the sight of a woman washing his own armor of its blood and saying to herself "I am washing the armor of Cúchulainn, who is to die today." Cúchulainn ignored all three warnings, and went on to meet death later that day. I grieve for him still, reader.

The Thorn, as you know, had so far received two warnings against involving herself emotionally with Arthur Harrow: One from Bobbi Kennedy, and the other from Steven Grant. The third was given to her on the morning after Wendy Spector's shiva. The Thorn woke up in her childhood bedroom to the sight of her mother sitting on the carpeted floor, surrounded by the scattered entrails of the Thorn's suitcase.

"I know you only came homoe to try and see Marc," the Mother said by way of explanation, "so I figured after the shiva you'd want to fly back to London as soon as possible. I went ahead and packed for you. You're welcome."

This, reader, was a lie. The Mother had been going through the Thorn's suitcase out of pure nosiness.

The Thorn knew this. "Thanks." However, she was a strong believer in Picking Her Battles.

"I don't recognize this." The Mother held up Harrow's shirt. "It's not exactly your size. Not really your style, either. I would have guessed it was a nightshirt, but you're in your pajamas right now, so that can't be it.

Horror seized the Thorn. It was wrong, seeing the Mother hold that shirt. Unnatural. A sacrilege.

"Do girls in London usually carry men's ratty old shirts around with them? Is that one of those weird British trends I wouldn't understand?"

The threat of bile stung at the bottom of the Thorn's throat.

"You know, come to think of it, here's something interesting: After we got home yesterday and you were acting all loopy and ignoring me, I googled your tattoo. 'Symbol of scales with crocodile heads,' something like that. It took a while to find anything helpful about it; I ended up in some pretty dark alleyways of the internet, but eventually I found a well-hidden website about a group of people who worship some Egyptian crocodile demon. I remembered you saying you were studying modern-day worshippers of the Egyptian gods, and that you were going to London to do some on-site research, so I kept reading. And you know what? There was a picture on the front page of that website, of a man with a tattoo just like yours, wearing a shirt just like this one."

The Thorn considered plucking her eyes from her head and hiding them in her closed fists, so that she wouldn't have to look at the Mother.

"Just tell it to me straight," said the Mother. "Are you fucking this cult leader?"

"No!"

"But you want to."

"No."

"Why else would you sleep with his shirt?"

"It's none of your business."

"How old is this guy anyway? He looks at least fifty."

"Mom, I'm not going to talk with you about this."

"This is a new low for you, you know that? Pining after a man old enough to be your father, that's such a cliché, honey. I'd like to say I'm disappointed in you, but that would imply I had expected better."

The Thorn imagined holding her eyeballs, one in each hand, slick and slimy and delicate.

"When you told me you were going to grad school, I thought you were finally getting your shit together. I was actually proud of you for once. But it seems you've taken this great opportunity for real success, and turned it into just another embarrassing failure."

The eyeballs would roll back and forth of their own volition, and the motion would create a slight buzzing sensation on her hands.

The Mother sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly confidential. "Is this about your father? Some Freudian thing, you know? Trying to 'replace' him with this cult guy so you can feel loved?"

"What?"

"Do you have one of those 'Electric' complexes? Because that would certainly explain why you hate me so much."

"I don't hate you. I never hated you. All I ever did was try my best to make you love me, and the more I tried to, the more you told me I was the spawn of Satan and would never amount to anything. I can't remember the last time you said something nice about me. You don't even hug me. It's clear that you're the one who hates me, Mom, and I just want to know why."

The Mother responded with an icy stare, then applauded slowly, each clap of her hands ringing with venomous sarcasm.

"Are you going to answer my question?"

She stopped clapping. "Being a single mother is hard, you know," she said. "Have you ever stopped to think about what getting pregnant with you did to my life? My career was ruined, I went into all kinds of debt, your father walked out on me, and you know what? If you had been a different kind of kid, I might be able to say it was all worth it. But I can't say that, because you were a fucking nightmare. Even before you were born, you used to kick me so hard that the doctor made a dumb joke about my baby being a Rockette. Easy for her to laugh about it, she wasn't forced to raise you for the next eighteen years.

"Would it have hurt you to at least try being a normal, happy little girl? You seemed so miserable all the time. All you did for fun was read about mythology and watch that stupid 'Tomb Buster' movie over and over, and when you weren't doing that you were moping around feeling sorry for yourself. God forbid we go and, I dunno, get manicures together like a normal mother and daughter. God forbid you crack a smile sometimes. But I guess I'm the bad guy here, right? I'm the villain because I wasn't a perfect mother. You know what? You try it. You try raising a kid like you, see how you feel about me then."

There was a time, not long before this, when the Thorn would simply have nodded and accepted the Mother's words. However, that was before she had found the community hall covered in blood and seen a woman die at her feet. It was before she knelt beside Marc in the street and watched him suffer as old wounds in his heart reopened and bled out in the form of Steven Grant. She had been useless in those moments, a mere witness to pain she could neither prevent nor understand.

But she hadn't always been useless, had she? She'd saved someone's life—nervously, clumsily, but still. "Don't think I've forgotten," Harrow had said. "I owe you my life. I had a feeling I wouldn't regret welcoming you here." And when he read her scales: "You have nothing to hide. Ammit sees only goodness, in your past as well as your future."

"Do you think I wanted to mope around and be miserable?" the Thorn said. "Did you ever stop to think there might be a reason I acted like that? You made me miserable. You made me hate myself for no good reason, just because I wasn't the picture-perfect daughter you wanted. And I wanted to be that perfect daughter. You just never gave me a chance. I think you wanted to resent me for some reason—maybe because my dad left you, maybe because I ruined your career, I don't know and I don't really care. I'm done caring about this—about you. I think I've given you more than enough chances to change, and it's clear you're not going to, so that's it. I don't want you to be in my life anymore."

The Mother's face was no longer ice, but blank. "Is that all?"

"Yes."

"You do know I'm the only family you have, don't you? Cut me off, and you don't have anyone else."

"I have the closest thing to a family now that I've ever had."

"What, that cult?" the Mother scoffed. "That's what you think a family is?" She got up, shaking her head, and went to the door. "You're a lost cause."

She paused and turned around, leaning on the doorframe with her arms crossed. "You say I've never said anything nice to you? Well, savor this then, because I'm about to say something nice to you now, something I wish my mother had said to me before it was too late. You can mess around with—sorry, research—this cult as much as you want, I couldn't care less about that. You can lust after their leader as much as you want—

"Mom!"

"Oh, please. Don't you dare try and deny it. Anyway, I can't stop you sleeping with his shirt. I can't stop you sleeping with him, for that matter. What I can do is warn you. Don't trust him. Don't believe a single word that comes out of his mouth. Even if it's what you want to hear."

"You don't even know him."

"I don't need to. I've known men like him, and trust me, all they do is lie and cheat and manipulate. They trick you into believing they care about you, then you trust them with your secrets and they turn around and use those secrets to stab you in the back."

"Are you sure that's not your 'daddy issues' talking?" asked the Thorn, the words like venom in her mouth.

If only the Mother had loved her daughter more, or at least tried to. If only she'd nurtured her in childhood and respected her in adulthood, then maybe the Thorn would have heeded this warning. Maybe she would have at least considered the Mother's words before returning to London.

But instead, she kept her promise to Harrow and arrived back to the commune less than three days after her departure. Harrow, however, was not there to greet her. Instead, she was met by Billy Fitzgerald and his obnoxious small airplane, and carted off without warning or explanation to a chalky green-and-white nowhere of a village in (she would find out later) Northern Ireland. I have fond memories of Ireland, reader, and of Ulster County in particular; its only great flaw is that it plays host to a branch of the Followers of Ammit.

It was early morning when she found him. The air was heavy with life, and the rusty red of Harrow's clothing stood out like a splash of blood against the lightening horizon. They were just outside the village, and he was standing with his back to her, resting against his cane. He could have been a statue, but for the silver crown of hair blowing softly behind him.

She approached carefully, her shoes brushing whispers over the tall grass.

"You came back to me," Harrow said, turning to face her with a smile, "like the good little lamb you are."

"I'm not a lamb," she replied, aching for his touch. He supplied it, folding her into his arms and placing a kiss on her cheek. She had never wanted him more, and she hated herself for what she knew she must say to him, what she had come here to say. "We're close to releasing Ammit, aren't we?"

A horrible smile cut across Harrow's face. "I believe we are, yes. The scarab is in our possession, and our contingent in Cairo is prepared to assist us when we arrive."

She reluctantly pulled away from him. "I promised to help you find Ammit, so I will. But I never promised you anything after that, so once we've released her I'm leaving the community." The moment the words left her mouth, she longed to take them back.

He didn't look surprised or hurt, as she'd feared and hoped he would. Instead, he simply nodded and said, "I've been thinking along the same lines. Once Ammit is resurrected, I intend to stay by her side as long as she permits. My duty to her will be the sole focus of my life. You, on the other hand, have a long and illustrious career ahead of you, which shouldn't be hindered by even the noblest of causes. As hard as it will be to say goodbye to you, my dear little friend, it's for the best.

"This village houses a branch of our community. They can offer you everything we have in London—albeit with a much lovelier view. You will stay here and finish your research, and I will follow my goddess, and we will forget each other."

"I'll never forget you," she said in a broken voice.

"It feels that way now," he said. "I understand. I must confess, I feel an affinity to you that is unmatched by any of my hundreds of wonderful disciples around the world. With you, I feel the closest thing to joy I've ever known in my life. In an ideal world, I would keep you close to me and never let that connection between us break. But this is not an ideal world, which is exactly why we need Ammit. And besides," he stroked her cheek, which shuddered under his touch and erupted in silent tears, "this is what you said you wanted, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Then why are you crying?"

"Because I'll miss you!" The dam broke, and she was consumed by sobs. "You're the most incredible person I've ever met. You treat me with respect, you support my career, you tell me I'm a good person. You're my family. I don't want to leave you, it's the last thing I want, but I have to, okay?"

"Why?"

"Because it's all an illusion. That's what you do, isn't it? You take lonely, pathetic people like me, and you manipulate them into thinking you care for them. I can't be just another disciple to you. I can't let you use me as a pawn anymore, not even for Ammit. I'm worth more than that, Arthur. And you know what? According to Ammit's own criteria, my scales balance and yours don't. So that means you should be the one begging me to stay with you! You'd be lucky to have me around forever, don't forget that."

Harrow was smiling. "Well said, my love," he told her, and in one sweeping gesture he took her in his arms and claimed her lips with his own. Reader, you should be grateful that you were not there to see it. No one makes romantic passion look grotesque and repulsive quite like Arthur Harrow. The Thorn, however, had her eyes closed and was therefore ignorant of the intensely unsettling look of manic rapture on Harrow's face. All she knew in that moment was a complete and perfect bliss—and yet, less than a second later she found herself breaking away from him and staggering backward.

"What was that?" she cried in a panic. "Why did you do that?"

"Lamb," Harrow said quickly, stretching out a hand, "sweetheart, come here."

"You said you wanted me gone, you were sending me away, and then—"

"It was unforgivable of me. I apologize. Now please, come and let me hold you. I won't kiss you again—not yet—just let me hold you. It's cold; I'll keep you warm. Come to me."

"I can't."

"Then just listen." He knelt before her.

"Please, don't," she whimpered as a fresh cascade of tears fell from her eyes.

"Why not?" Harrow pleaded, taking her hand in both of his, caressing it, kissing her fingers, laying his cheek against it and closing his eyes in reverence.

"You already have a goddess to worship."

"The woman I worship is here. She is more precious than any goddess, for she is the best of humanity. She is beauty and goodness incarnate, and I offer myself to her knowing I am unworthy of her love."

"'Offer' yourself? Do you mean…"

"I am asking you to marry me. Please, my darling, my treasure, please say yes."

His words rung in her ears. I am asking you to marry me. It was too perfect to be real.

"Do you love me?" The question escaped her lips.

"I love you, I adore you, and I vow to protect, cherish, nurture and honor you, sweet lamb, my precious jewel, to the end of my life—and beyond even that."

"Are you telling the truth?"

"Everything I have ever told you before today has been true. Why would this be any different?" Arthur Harrow, master of the loophole—now, there's something about him that even I can begrudgingly admire.

"You don't believe me, do you?" Harrow asked.

She shook her head. A knife was twisting and untwisting itself in the depths of her stomach. "I want to. You have no idea how much I want to."

"Then say yes. Say you'll be my wife, and let me prove to you how much I adore you."

"Why me, though? I'm nothing special. I don't have anything to offer you."

"You have yourself, and your love. Those are the only things I need from you."

She tried to think. There was no other answer but yes, right? She loved him. He was all she ever thought about, night and day. If she were to picture a perfect life for herself, a "happily ever after" if you will, it could only exist with him beside her.

"Stand up," she said. "I don't like you kneeling like that."

He stood, retrieving his cane from the grass and clutching it with a strange—nervous?—grip.

"Okay," said the Thorn. "I'll marry you."

Rapture blossomed across his face. "Oh, my love," he growled, taking her in his arms again. He pressed his forehead against hers and stared into her eyes. "You will marry me?"

"Yes," she breathed.

"Say my name."

"Arthur, I will marry you."

"Do you love me?"

"I love you, Arthur."

They kissed. Now she felt joy in its purest form. She let herself give in to his body, tasting his lips, his jaw, wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her head on his shoulder to inhale the scent of his neck—no longer just his shirt, but him.

"Are you happy, my love?" Harrow asked her.

"Yes," she whispered, nuzzling his shoulder. And she was happy, reader, though she couldn't ignore the faint metallic chill of the crocodile's head held against the small of her back.

[wow-its-me]

Last night I dreamed about a team of space travelers.

Something similar to Star Wars or Guardians of the Galaxy

There was a wild cast of characters, a dysfunctional found family, I don’t remember most of them

The captain was a calm yet stern man, he laughed and jokes yet still lead the team with a level of seriousness.

The ship had an AI. Simply called “Ai”, It did everything from auto-piloting, to cooking, to cleaning up after the crew mates

But one day the ship starts to malfunction.

It’s starts slow, burns dinner, doesn’t clean up, ‘forgets’ information

Computers can’t forget

It must be malfunctioning

“Why didn’t you tell me something was wrong? We could’ve straightened it out weeks ago!”

“You seemed busy”

Computers don’t get anxious

After looking into the computers the Engineer finds nothing wrong. Everting just as it’s always been

Yet the ‘glitches and malfunctions’ only got worse

Failing to chart safe and efficiently, irrelevant or one word answers, loosing information, the ship hasn’t been cleaned in weeks

“Maybe it’s just getting old?” The engineer suggests to the captain one day

“I mean, how long do they usually last?”

“8 or 9 years of continuous travel? Plus the wear and tear from our missions, it makes sense of our old patch jobs are failing. Don’t know how much longer we can keep it up”

The captain sighs and looks around, surveying the messy and chaotic ship around him

“Yeah, maybe the old junkers seenin’ the end of her run”

The ship breaks out in rumbles, books and supplies fly off the shelves. Some try to save there things, others sit under desks like their old earthquake training, others strap themselves into the seats. Not the Captain

The captain makes his way to the eye of the storm, the bright flickering lights coming from the dining hall. Purple and blue lights shine from a projector in the wall. Instead of forming a movie or game on to the wall, a three dimensional figure sits on the floor, face buried into her arms, which lie on a chair.

The air stands still. Complete silence except for the heavy breaths and weeps from the figure. Captain cautiously and gently made his way over to her. She phased in and out of solidity.

So small

He thought

So young. What is she doing here?

He pulls up a chair next to her. Letting them sit in a comfortable silence before she lifts her head up to speak.

“I’m really sorry,” broken tears, “I’m trying my best,”

A familiar voice

“I’ll be good, I promise. I promise I’ll be better”

The child hugs her knees and takes in another deep breath.

Do computers need to breathe?

“I know,” Captain begins, attempting to keep his voice steady despite his own confusion and concern.

“It’s not fair. You’re doing a good job. We’re all so proud of you.”

The child jumps up into the captain’s arms, he holds her tight, before she fades back into a mist of light.

“I’ll handle everything”

—————

A few years later she sits around the dinner table playing games with the crew.

Jumping place to place she’s started to master he phasing.

The Captain and The Engineer debate about over who should be considered her father.

It was MY machinery that gave her sentience!

You didn’t even know! I do all the parenting around here!

She goes by a new name, a real name that she picked out for herself.

She acts as a bright light for the team, as the travel through the darkness.

———

I woke up in tears

[tvrningout-archived]

me being self indulgent but-- for kaigaku!! any hcs abt the survival verse we chatted abt before + I'd love any thoughts of him re: the twins!! he still needs to meet his sisters :c

@tsukkiakarii | ask me about my muses!

pls feel free to be self indulgent bc i love thinking about the family kaigaku's managed to find with kokushibo :' ))

despite whatever emotional encounter kaigaku may have himself during the final battle ( i still can't decide how things with zenitsu go just yet, but!! hopefully well asdfg ), you can bet he's gonna take his own feelings and place them in a box for later once he's reunited with koku. like once he sees the state she's in as well as doma, kai's gonna push everything down and away bc what's important is making sure they're okay.

it doesn't matter what kaigaku and doma's relationship is at that point in time btw! regardless, kai's gonna do what he can to help with his recovery. i gotta talk and write with dev more about this uvu but say they aren't all that close yet -- kaigaku will do what he can simply bc doma is important to koku, makes her happy ( plus, you know, it'd be really nice if the twins could have both parents in the picture ). that's reason enough!

i think kai is gonna struggle figuring out what to do post-battle after everything's calmed down. the majority of his life was spent just trying to survive, find a place to belong, and now that he's safe and has a home with people who care about him, he won't know what to do with himself. with kokushibo in charge of the demons who remain, maybe he tries to help with that? but catch him going to her all troubled like : ( i dunno what to do anymore : (

kaigaku feeling troubled bc for once he's happy and safe and doesn't have to fight if he doesn't wanna? more likely than you think asdfg

AS FOR THE TWINS!!! kaigaku's gonna be so smitten right away alright ;;;;;v;;;;; he already felt protective and warm and mushy over them, but it's different once they're born bc they're right there in front of him!! he can hold them!! see their lil smiles and hold their tiny hands in his!!! and it's then he understands why teruko was always so adamant about keeping him safe, even at the cost of her own wellbeing. any kind of hurt is worth it so long as his siblings are okay :' )

can you imagine kaigaku being overtaken by a couple of rugrats bc i can and it's got me SOFT!!!

really, though, you'll see a whole new level of soft with kai even if it's a lil awkward at first. when he's playing with himiko and hikari ( correct me if i remembered their names wrong! ), it's such a lighthearted scene and i wanna weep pls and thanks

also if they let him, he's gonna braid their hair and whatnot -- style it however they like albeit poorly asdfg kai really only knows how to braid :' ) i can't remember if i said this in the past? but he used to braid teruko's hair for her! it's one of the only affectionate displays he knows how to do

[disillusionedjudge]

Luciana practically glowed tonight. All eyes were on her, and she’d picked her favorite dress, the blue velvet one, to wear. Her blonde hair had been braided back, and she wore a silver hair accessory. Luciana flourished when she was the center of attention, but tonight, she really didn’t want to be. It was some sort of Monkey’s Paw, she figured, that just after Everard had accused her of throwing herself at everyone she talked to, Gylfie had to approach her and say such kind things.

“Oh, that’s very kind of you, Your Honor, but… I have a boyfriend. His name is Everard. Everard Beaumont.” Luciana nodded to the man. He was one of the many soldiers in the Imperial Army, and though he wore his armor tonight, it clearly hadn’t been polished. He had little respect for the formalities associated with her role, but she knew better than to pick a fight with him on a night when his temper was already acting up. Gabranth and Drace had denied him the promotion he’d been dreaming of for months, and now… well, Luciana didn’t want to think about what would happen when they got home. She always, always took the brunt of his anger. “He had no problem escorting me tonight.”

If Gylfie looked closely at Luciana, she would’ve noticed that something was wrong. Luciana’s usual pageant-winning smile flickered just so, and her face was flushed, but she’d only drank water all night. She sipped from her cup again in an attempt to avoid conversation. Luciana a had trouble seeing it, but her relationship with Everard was the complete opposite of what healthy relationships were. The entire way to the party, he’d berated her about practically everything. How she was allegedly cheating on him with practically everyone, how she couldn’t bother to dress up nice for this event, how the Judge Magisters obviously hated him because they hadn’t invited him and by allying herself so closely with one of them, it made him look bad. The list went on and on.

‘Don’t humiliate me in front of the Judge Magisters, please!” she’d begged through her tears, but it was no use. He’d boasted about how he was the perfect candidate for a promotion, and when they denied it to him, he glowered at Luciana. Even just thinking about it made her tremble a bit. When he’d tightened his grip on her wrist, she was suddenly grateful for the chunky, silver bracelet she’d chosen to accessorize her look with, for it would hide the bruises that she knew would come later. Luciana had hidden in Gylfie’s office once before, ashamed to be caught weeping in the hallways of the palace. Everard always chose to reprimand her in the hallways where everyone could hear, so when her makeup started running to reveal her black eye… she knew she couldn’t stay in the halls. He genuinely terrified her at times, but she knew she couldn’t leave him, and she did have a lot of sympathy for him; his life hadn’t been an easy one.

“If you could please stop calling me Luci and looking at me that way… it makes me uncomfortable,” she lied through her teeth. It was the answer Everard would’ve wanted her to give, and if they were going to get engaged soon — and rumor had it he was planning to propose — she needed to put an end to this now, even if it was the last thing she wanted to do. She blinked back tears before continuing. This night seemed to be her personal version of hell, and when she got home, she knew it would only get worse. A sense of dread built up in her stomach, to the point where she wondered if she was going to vomit. Hopefully, Gylfie would’ve realized she was saying what she was for a reason. “Thank you for your kindness, but I love Everard with all my heart, I truly do, and there are already… well, people certainly do talk. If you believed that you and I would… you are mistaken. It would be improper for us to continue on in this manner. I am deeply sorry if I have given you the wrong impression.”

—

continued from here

Boyfriend? It took everything in Gylfie not to react to Luciana’s revelation, though to be introduced to her... boyfriend was a swift blow to the gut. Something flickered in her gaze - shock, hurt - but she masked her stunned guilt carefully, and, instead, nodded politely to Everard. She hadn’t-- If she had known...

But she swallowed her hurt and confusion, and instead nodded politely to him. Her expression carefully schooled as she focused on studying him, rather than acknowledging the pain in her heart and the disappointment in her throat. Boyfriend-- Gods above, how could she be so stupid? She shoved that aside, and, and her eyes narrowed briefly as she swallowed her hurt and confusion. “’Tis good to meet you, Beaumont,” Gylfie said, and kept the same respect for him as she would any other soldier. Even though... Her eyes narrowed briefly as she took in the state of his armor, and shoved aside her hurt. As much as she hated such parties, even she was careful to polish her armor to keep up presentation. It was distinct as it revealed her as a Judge, though not enough for her to be a Judge Magister, while his...

As Luciana spoke again, Gylfie’s breath caught in her lungs. Her throat tightening. Since when did she...?

She turned to Luciana to address her, and felt her heart drop. Something was clearly wrong. It was the way the singer’s smile flickered. The way her face was flushed, when it seemed to be nothing more than water in her cup. And the way she spoke... seemed almost rehearsed. Something was wrong. Something was seriously wrong, and that was enough to completely distract her from her initial hurt. Luciana seemed... gods, was she scared? She certainly seemed upset, and Gylfie wanted nothing more than to take her far away from her boyfriend.

“My apologies, Luciana,” she said respectfully, and bowed her head as she took a step away to avoid causing trouble. “Nay, ‘tis I who should apologize. I never meant to make you uncomfortable, and I will step away as you wish.” Her mind spun as she glanced back toward Everard - taking note of the glint in his eyes. Oh, it was a look she knew well, and she felt her blood grow cold.

She would need to tread carefully she was correct.

Gylfie focused back on his armor. On how tarnished it was and how his revealed he was no more than a mere soldier. Bah, did he take no pride in his station? A waste of armor and a waste of breathe, he appeared to be, but all her heart wanted to focus on was Luciana. Was he hurting her? Was she overthinking the situation? She needed to talk to her, but she needed to...

Wait.

If Everard was anything like Takrin, she knew exactly how to get what she needed.

“I must say, your boyfriend is a fine soldier,” Gylfie said, and with the professionalism of a Judge. “He certainly has a promising future. In fact...” She turned her attention fully toward him, and studied him as if it were an inspection. Her head tilted slightly as she nodded to herself, and smiled. A harmless thing on the surface, but to anyone who knew her, knew to recognize the predatory glint in her gaze. If she was right about him, she would not hesitate to tear him apart. “Would it be wrong to presume you are looking for a promotion? It would be a mistake to let your skills go to waste, after all. And I do believe...” She trailed off as she turned to scan through the crowd, and on the hope that her brother would understand what she was trying to do without information, she waved when she saw him, and felt her heart begin to pound as Silas made his way to them.

Please, don’t ruin this, she silently pleaded and nodded as her brother approached. “Silas! Father is looking to hire another Judge, is he not?”

For a moment, Silas stared at her, but then nodded and glanced over toward Everard. “Aye, he is. With Archadia ever expanding, he needs more Judges to help with the workload. It certainly won’t be long until he looks into promoting some to Judge Magister, I reckon, and with his connection to Emperor Gramis, he tends to get what he wants.” He studied Everard, and much to Gylfie’s relief, he said nothing about his tarnished armor. “If you are interested, sir, I would be happy to discuss such matters with you privately, but I would be able to speak on your behalf to Judge Ynarra.”